


POPism

by completementfou_avoue111



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: 1960s, 1960s Music, Alternate Universe - Historical, Coming of Age, F/M, Multi, New York City, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 92,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completementfou_avoue111/pseuds/completementfou_avoue111
Summary: The times, they are a-changin'. Summer, New York City, 1966. Bella is running from a life where she had no control when she finds herself swept up in the world of Warhol and his Superstars. This is the summer of self discovery, movie making, loving, and some good old rock and roll.Note about the underage tag: Bella is 17 at the start of the story but will soon be 18. In future chapters there will be some discussion of an inappropriate relationship, but I'll provide ample warnings as well as a change in rating before that happens.
Relationships: Edward Cullen/Bella Swan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 3





	1. I Saw Her Standing There

**June 17, 1966**

**New York City**

**Edward**

_I’ve seen her before._ She was here and there throughout Andy’s movies, a wisp of long hair, a boot stepping into frame before the camera swung to Edie. From her ephemeral presence on camera, I could tell she was thicker than Edie and Viva, that she had a real rack on her. I couldn’t tell for sure, but in the photograph that was tacked above the fireplace in Paul’s roasting loft in Chelsea, she looked like she had the biggest eyes ever, almond shaped and the color of liquid tar shimmering through the resin print.

She wasn’t all cheekbones like the other girls in Andy’s group; there was a real softness to her. She was round whereas the other girls were angular, and she looked younger than any girl hanging with that group had a right to be. In the photo, her mouth is obscured by her hand and her cigarette. Her hair, blowing in the apparent wind, further masks her features. I can’t put a name to her face, although I’m almost positive I’ve heard it before. Maybe Sandra or Donna or something like that… or was it Claudette? I know some of the girls are French, or think they can pass as European, but the picture is blurry enough that all I can make out for certain is that her eyes are dark, and I’ve seen her before.

While Paul dicks around with the piles of paper all over his floor, letting his cigarette ash itself as he mutters around it, I surreptitiously sneak the tack off the photo. It drops to the messy floor and I pick it up, clearing my throat to get Paul’s attention.

“Who is this?” I ask, waving the photo. It warbles in the air, a thick, almost wet sound that I love so much. Since I bought my first camera all the way back in ‘59, I’ve never grown tired of the feel of photo paper, the sound it makes, the chemical smell of the darkroom. I’m lucky that I have somewhat of a knack for taking pictures. I’ve been able to sell some of the photos I’ve taken to the Bronx Press-Review, developing a rapport with the paper to the point where I’m getting paid $130 a week to take photos for some of the big stories. With the newspaper contract that I signed in February, I can afford my new apartment over Tompkins Square Park at $100 a month.

Paul glances at the photo, then drops his head back to his search. He shrugs, noncommittal. Looks at the floor as he answers me.

“I think that’s the newest girl on the scene. Warhol took her picture and says he’s going to put her in a movie. He’s got some girl following him around called Blue or something and I think that she’s one of her friends. If you stop by Max’s one night you might run into her.”

The good thing about Paul is you can always trust a guy on speed to stay out of your business. I met Paul when I worked as an asbestos worker back in ‘62 before my pictures were good enough to sell. Paul worked for a few months with the same building group I worked for, then got fired for showing up stoned. Well, they’d said he was stoned; really, he was the opposite of stoned, all frantic energy and action. He’d been hanging out at the bars near the docks and those guys weren’t into feeling mellow. They liked uppers, and Paul liked the guys. Either way, he wasn’t so good at his job on amphetamines, so Aro kicked him out. Paul and I had gotten along well enough, so I tracked him down and heard about this new guy he knew and how I might find the group keen too. And so I was hanging with the cool cats every now and again, when I had the mind to, but more often than not I kept to myself.

Today I’d swung around Paul’s to see if I could get some grass, and he had some but he said he had the number of a guy who had something even better, so there we were. I slipped the photo of the girl into the pocket of my pants so I could get a better look at it later, with my glasses on. I wasn’t too great at wearing them all the time; they made me look like such a nork. I’d be no help to Paul in looking for the number of the guy he wanted to call, what without my glasses and all, but even with them the guy had no organization whatsoever. Rather than keep an address book, Paul took down numbers on newspaper and napkins and receipts and let those slips of paper make themselves at home wherever they fell in his loft.

I decide to go get a cup of coffee while Paul searches. I’m not patient by nature, which is why I like grass and hash if I can get it; it chills me out, lets me live in the moment and not in the past or future as I’m prone to. I first tried the stuff when I moved to the city from Chicago six and a half years ago, at the end of ‘59. Back then, it made me a weepy son of a bitch, crying over my dead sister and how I could’ve stopped it. Picture Brando moaning about being a bum: that was me when I got stoned back then. I’m grown now, numb to the bullshit of the world and impervious to what’s fair and what’s not. I remember when all my friends were so moved by Kennedy’s assassination that they needed something stronger than grass and got their hands on morphine. I tried it, sure, but it didn’t do much for me. I was already on my path to ambivalence without a drug that knocked me out for half a day.

I enjoy my coffee in the corner of a little diner on 8th Avenue and 23rd Street. If I were closer to the windows I’d be able to see the sign for Hotel Chelsea. Last time I talked to Andy, several weeks ago, he’d mentioned something about wanting to shoot a movie there. Although I’d met some people who lived at the hotel I’d never been inside it. I remember Edie mentioning that Mark Twain lived there, as had the beatniks, and it’d been named a historic site in New York just this year, but aside from Hitchcock stuff I couldn’t see the point in movies about hotels. I moved out of my room in the boarding house in Flushing right after I saw _Psycho_ all those years ago. I couldn’t trust that the other boarders weren’t going to stab me in the bathroom, no matter how hard I tried reasoning with myself.

I finish my coffee and doodle a little on the napkin. If I’m not on photography assignment for the paper, I’m usually walking the city, trying to find something new to shoot for my own project. I’ve been building my own private portfolio for some time, but today I find myself drawn to the photo I’ve appropriated from Paul’s apartment. I pull it out of my pocket and try to sketch it on the napkin. I get the shape of the girl down alright, but her eyes evade me and every attempt to better capture them ends up creating a dark mess on the napkin. I stop when I scribble through the thin paper and leave a dime on the table to cover the coffee and a substantial tip for the mousy gal who served me.

Outside the diner, I smoke a cigarette and think about whether or not to go back to Paul’s. Odds are, he got engrossed in something while looking for the number of the guy who supposedly had some better grass, and me going back would start the process all over again. If he hadn’t left his loft, that is. Paul said something about the girl in the photo hanging around with Andy’s girls; he mentioned Max’s in particular, so I decide to head home and freshen up. In a few hours, I might be talking my way into the back room of the most choice bar in Manhattan.

My apartment above Tompkins Square Park isn’t the nicest place, but it fits my needs. It’s a pain and a half to walk up eleven flights of stairs to get to it, but the lock to my door is secure and I even reinforced the window latch so unless someone is trying to break my window, it’s not high on prowlers’ lists. The poor old widow in the garden apartment, Mrs. Cope has been burgled too many times to count. She shouts at me if I walk too close to her entry for comfort, but she also calls me if she needs some repairs done. Although I hated working for the Volturi Brothers Building Group at the time, I learned some stuff and can use a tool box if I have a need to.

Despite moving into my place in March, I have nothing really to show for it in June. The bedroom was supposed to be my darkroom, but I’ve been utilizing the darkroom at work for the few photographs I’ve taken for my own project. I keep my phone on the shelf I bought for my records, but I use the party line to cut costs, and the other family has two teenage daughters so they’re yakking it up all the time. When I got my own phone, people called me all the time, but stopped when they realized that the party line was almost always hot, and that I rarely spend time at home. Even though subway rides are only fifteen cents, I prefer to walk and started doing it even when I had nowhere to go just for a change of pace. I used to take tons of photos on my walks, but now I sort of just space out. It’s a habit of mine. Ma called me Sputnik for a year before I left home.

My records never quite made it onto the shelves I bought for them. I have my record player on the floor next to the boxes I keep the records in. If I play it too loud my neighbors below me, an Indian man and his young adult son, tap their ceiling with a broom. Buying music is the reason I can never quite seem to save money; I just can’t help myself if I see a record shop, and I rationalize that my salary can handle it when it really shouldn’t. I have them organized by year and alphabet in the boxes and when people come over and start looking through them I get rash about it. I like to have my records in order.

I put on the Kinks’ latest release, _The Kink Kontroversy_ , and get to work shaving. I haven’t shaved in a few days, but I don’t grow a beard too quick. I’ve tried just about every look-- a mustache in the vein of Mark Murphy, a goatee favored by Rudolph Valentino from those silent films my mother loved, sideburns that cut a bit into my cheeks like Elvis… but facial hair did me no real favors. My beard skews so ginger it’s embarrassing and my late mother, may she rest in peace, said my cleft chin was too handsome to cover up. I stick to the full sideburns that kiss my earlobes and only shave the rest of my face when it gets itchy enough that I scratch it raw. I’d cut my hair into a mop top when the Beatles came to play Ed Sullivan back in ‘64; unfortunately for me, my hair doesn’t stay in one place without enough grease to make rockabillies jealous, so the mop top made me look nuts without any help and grody with it. I’ve been growing it out since. Once it reached my jaw it settled down, although it made my old man wig out when I went home for Ma’s funeral last year. He called me by my dead sister’s name the whole time I was home, which I guess was better than calling me a pinko, if only marginally. Coming back to New York was a breath of fresh air after the pain of Chicago.

After shaving and combing my hair, I put on my glasses to get a better look at the picture. The girl’s dark eyes follow me as I move my head around, trying to get a different view of her from the one image. I never get so hung up on one girl. If I ever want to nail a random girl I can just hang out around the Martha Washington in NoMad. If I want an uppity chick I can dress nicely and smoke outside the Barbizon. This girl isn’t the standard women’s hotel girl I might shack up with. There’s a real beauty in the ordinariness of her face. I make up my mind to head to Max’s Kansas City once the record is done.

I change from my black turtleneck-- too beatnik-- into my blue checked Penn-Prest shirt and my Oakbrook casual slacks. The shirts were two for $7.44 and are supposed to need no ironing; since I’m almost always tapped out I try to save where I can, and skipping laundry service is prime for saving. I only have a pair of oxfords and a pair of tennies, which won’t do for a night out, so oxfords it is. I take out my shoe shine kit from under my bed and work on the shoes to “What’s In Store for Me.” The Kinks just arrange their tracks so neatly. I like the Beatles well enough, but they’re way overrated when compared to the Kinks and the Rolling Stones. I’d almost want to go to England if my old man wasn’t from Truro. He proudly talked about his childhood on the moors or whatever and cursed emigrating to Chicago in 1935; he’d have been 23 or 24, I think. Lucky enough for me, I guess; if he hadn’t been in the States and met my mother, I’d likely not have been born seeing as we didn’t join the war effort until a few months after my birth. I think he regrets that he ever set foot in America, seeing as it resulted in me.

The walk to Max’s Kansas City is only 20 minutes from my apartment. I’m a fast walker but I try to pace myself since the weather is hot and humid, the typical start of a New York summer. I don’t want to sweat through my shirt and coat before I get to the bar. I’m running low on cigarettes so I stop in the corner store on 10th and 4th and pick up a pack of Winstons. I finish my pack en route to the bar, and when I get to the entrance I’m a little too keyed up to go in. I’m no doctor and I’m not squeamish about my health, but the Surgeon General’s report a few years back about how smoking is probably bad for health sometimes crosses my mind, usually when my stomach is a little stirred up and I’ve smoked more than a pack in a day. I wonder if I really ought to cut down, but I’m more worked up about running into Andy and maybe the girl from the photo. I left the photo at the apartment, thank God, because meeting her while I have it in my pocket would make me look like a full on psychopath. I flick my lighter open and shut for a minute before gathering my courage and stepping inside.

One of the guys guarding the back room is a guy I know, a big Scotch fella who wanted to work in the darkroom of the paper. I think he’s from Scotland, at least; his accent is nearly incomprehensible to me, but his vibes are good and he talks so loudly that to ask him to repeat himself would be to ask to lose an ear.

“Hey, McCarthy,” I greet him. “How’s the back tonight?”

“I know you didn’t just call me McCarthy when my Christian name is Emmett,” he says. “The back’s just fine now, a little full but nothing too outrageous.”

“Room for one more?”

He shrugs, acting all cool… before his face breaks into a huge grin. “I can never say no to a friend.”

“Thanks.” I pat him on the arm and raise my hand to shake his, a dollar and two cigarettes cupped in my palm to pass off. He accepts the bribe and winks at me as he opens the door.

“Edward?” He says as I step into the back room. I turn to face him.

“Yes, Emmett?”

“The last name is McCarty. No ‘H.’ Tell your editors.”

I half smile back at him. “Will do.”

The back room is packed full of the hippest people in Manhattan; the place is nice, but tonight there are people here who stink of real money. Old money. In the back corner I think I see Andy and some girls; I know I need to say hello, but first I really need a drink so I order a Tom Collins and slug half it down before I think better of it. I don’t want to be drunk but I do want something to take the edge off this weird feeling.

I make my way to the back where I think I saw Andy’s group. The air is thick with summer heat and smoke, overpowering the air conditioning. I don’t light up even though I’m itching for something to have in my mouth to take the pressure off talking.

At the corner booth I see Andy with his arm around a svelte blonde who looks to be about his height, maybe even my height. She’s wearing one of those high fashion dresses that I saw on a magazine cover last year, the white and red and black patched ones, only hers has a blue patch at her left shoulder. She’s got on round blue glasses and some blue makeup around her eyes, which, I notice, are deep blue. Red lipstick coats her mouth even though red isn’t the mod color these days, but it sort of highlights how pale she is. She’s smoking her cigarette from an ivory cigarette holder even though most come filtered these days. Her hair is swept into an updo. It’s hard to take my eyes off her, but then I notice that just about everyone has their eyes on her and my interest fades. Andy goes gaga for fame and attention, but I’m more interested in being in the background. It’s why I’m a photographer and not an actor or anything, although Andy told me he’d love to put me in a movie.

“Hi, Andy,” I say. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to the Factory. How’s it going?”

Andy beams at me from his seat beside the blonde. “Edward, it’s so nice to see you,” he begins. “I’ve just been working on the movies these days. My darling friend here, who you’ll just love, is such an inspiration. Did you know she’s been living at the Hotel Chelsea since she moved here in April?” He nods at the blonde.

“I don’t know her at all.”

The blonde unfolds herself from the booth and extends her left hand to me, dangling her wrist like I’m supposed to kiss the huge diamond and sapphire cocktail ring on her ring finger. Is she trying to tell me that she’s married? She quirks an eyebrow at me suggestively and I’m irked by her strange behavior. Why would she flirt if she’s married?

“I’m Mrs. Rosalie King,” the blonde says as I awkwardly touch my lips to her knuckles. She’s got a Southern accent that she’s clearly trying to cover. She pulls her hand from me and folds it under her chin, lightly touching her face in a way I’ve seen Andy do a number of times.

“Pleased to meet you,” I offer. “I’m Edward. I know Andy.”

“My friends all call me Blue,” Rosalie says as she sits back down and sidles up to Andy. “On account of my eyes.”

“Oh,” I say. I don’t know how to take her. She’s a stunner, but I’m thinking she’s all show and no go. And she definitely said “Mrs.” There’s something pretty phony about her.

“Andy’s been telling me he wants to put me in the movies. He’s planning to film all of us girls living at the hotel and make me a star,” Rosalie says. I can’t really think of her as ‘Blue;’ I wonder if her friends really do call her by that nickname.

“Nifty,” I say. I start to look around the room a bit when Rosalie lights up.

“There’s Stella!” She exclaims, looking straight through me. “She’s brought drinks!”

I feel a presence behind me, and I step aside to allow a petite brunette to slide into the booth. Her waist-length hair covers her face, but I can see she’s wearing clothes that border on preppy, all conservative and out of place in a nice bar in Manhattan. Her skirt is past her knees and she’s got on boots that go pretty high on her calf without a heel to make them stylish. She folds her shoulders in as she settles and slides bar glasses to Andy and Rosalie, her own drink just a bottle of Coke. Rosalie nods her head towards her friend Stella.

“Won’t you have a seat and a drink with us, Edward?” Andy invites. I shrug and sit down next to Rosalie’s friend. She presses against a girl all curled in the corner wearing a fluffy pink number. I hadn’t noticed the other girl before, but she’s mum so there’s not much to say about her.

“See, Blue here likes to call her friend Stella because of _A Streetcar Named Desire_ , but I think the name ‘Odette’ suits her better,” Andy says, lifting one finger from his drink to point at the girl I’m sitting next to. I look down at her but she shies away from me without even looking up.

“And why’s that?” I ask. Andy grins.

“She’s a swan,” Andy says. Rosalie rolls her eyes. “Introduce yourself, darling.”

I’m looking at the top of her head when she turns her face to me shyly.

There she is: the girl from the photo.

In person, she’s even more enigmatic than in print. Her eyes aren’t black, but a smooth brown; she’s put on makeup around them in a brown that matches the color. Her hair is dark brown and parted in the middle. She tucks a strand behind her left ear, and then I see it: a pinkish-purple birthmark starting at her left temple and flowing down the left side of her face, cupping her left eye and kissing her cheekbone before snaking down to her jaw. It flows over her jaw and down her neck, but my view of the mark is cut off by the mustard turtleneck she has on. Her lips are painted a kind of mauve that matches the mottled color of her birthmark and I’m struck again by how young she looks. How did she get into this bar if she’s only, what, fifteen years old?

“I’m Bella Swan,” she says, her voice only audible over the noise of the bar.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bella,” I hear myself say without thinking of saying it. “I’m Edward Masen.”


	2. Da Doo Ron Ron

**September 1965**

**New York City**

**Bella**

New York is nothing like I could have imagined. I thought Seattle was big when we moved from Tukwila up to Capitol Hill in 1961, and I saw it grow even bigger when the Seattle World’s Fair gave the city a whole new look, but New York has been all that and then some. It’s like the whole world squeezed up into five boroughs; there’s never a shortage of things to do or see, and I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have girlfriends to do and see it all with.

Well, in all honesty, I don’t always feel so lucky. Actually, I rarely feel lucky. I’ve grown out of feeling sorry for myself, but I do tend to be morose. My English teacher at Garfield High School back home told me I could be quite a Holden Caulfield when I pleased, and he loaned me his copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ when I told him I didn’t understand the reference. It was reading that book that I got it in my head to come to New York City, but five years ago it was just a schoolgirl’s dream. Two years ago I started thinking about going to college, and Mr. Banner mentioned Barnard.

“If your dream is still to go to New York, that is,” he said. Mr. Banner said some wonderful things, but that was probably the most enlightening. Under his tutelage, I realized that I did want to go to college, and that New York was my dream. What came after that was murky, but I felt confident at the time that Mr. Banner would be by my side, helping me figure out each step of the way.

For a plain girl with an ugly red birthmark, I needed all the advice I could get, and Mr. Banner truly wanted to help me, or it seemed so at the time. He looked at me sometimes in a way that made me forget I wasn’t pretty. I kept my hair long to hide the birthmark as well as I could, but Mr. Banner brushed the hair out of my face. He bought me a barrette for it and told me that if I pulled my hair away from my face I’d be prettier. The morning I left Seattle, the day I made my getaway, I threw the barrette in the garbage.

When I stepped off the train at Penn Station last September, I had only sixty dollars in my pocketbook. I found a room at the Martha Washington for thirty dollars a week and bought the New York Times for a dime and a cup of coffee for a nickel. I spent two hours in Central Park reading the paper and looking through the classifieds for a job, any job. I didn’t want to live at the hotel any longer than I needed, but I felt some trepidation about putting down real roots in the city. I knew that at some point, my father would go sick from worrying over me, but I couldn’t even think of calling him before I’d gotten my feet on the ground. It was that moodiness in me, what my father called “feminine wiles,” that made me so susceptible to persuasion and arguments against my better nature. It was the reason I was to blame for everything that happened in Seattle.

I needed to pace myself when answering the classifieds, since I only had the money for one week at the Martha Washington. Each dime counted against me, and I wasn’t sure if it was uncouth to call collect when applying for work. Most of the clerk and secretary jobs asked for six and a half months of work experience, but I’d only ever worked as a candy striper when I was younger. I knew my way around numbers and figured maybe I could get some bookkeeping work, but held out hope for a job in reception at an airline, although all the ads in the paper said to send my information in by mail and wait for a letter in response. I didn’t have time to wait for such a response, so I tried my luck calling two of the bookkeeping positions before finding my luck: a job as a counter girl at a donut shop in Chelsea.

I made thirty-eight dollars a week there, which enabled me to stay at the Martha Washington. In October, I called my father at work and left a message at the Seattle Police Department that I was in good health and working on college. I neglected to say where I was. He didn’t need to know just yet. Possibly ever; my father’s rage was something I felt across the country, an invisible but electric force that sometimes jolted me awake at night, gasping for air. He was furious with my mother for leaving us. He was furious with Garfield High School. I couldn’t imagine him feeling anything for me but fury, for embarrassing him, for shaming myself, for carrying on the whole sordid affair under his nose. For stepping out of line and refusing to step back in.

In November, New York City was freezing. I couldn’t remember it being so cold in Seattle. Although I’d brought my winter coat, it wasn’t enough for the winds and the snow of the Northeast, and I didn’t make enough money to afford new shoes, scarves, hats, and gloves. Luckily enough for me, there was a job opening at the cafeteria in Bloomingdale’s that paid forty-two dollars a week. I was tired of smelling like hot oil, and the job at Bloomingdale’s gave me more room in my budget to attire myself correctly. I got a second job at the brand new International House of Pancakes on Lexington, and while that meant I needed to ride the subway to avoid a walking commute in East Harlem, I figured that if I’d braved one of the first rides on the monorail the World’s Fair unveiled in Seattle, I could manage the subway.

I was unprepared for the music of the subways. I loved the buskers at Pike Place Market, had even befriended Jeanne who played the autoharp, but the music in the New York City subway enchanted me. Waiting for my commute home one evening, I heard a familiar song coming from the wrong platform. I’d worked two shifts that day in late November, and I was desperate to get home to the hotel, to take off my stockings and rest my aching feet, but the sound from the platform called to me. Sitting on the damp ground, cradling a guitar, a thin man crooned “Girl from the North Country” by Bob Dylan. I felt my eyes water as I stood and listened to him play all the way through; he repeated the final verse of the song an extra time and the emotion in me burst forth, and I was crying in front of a poor stranger in a city in which I lived but was not my home. I was making enough noise that he stopped playing altogether when the song came to its end. I’d covered my face with my gloved hands and was surprised when I felt two hands clutch my shoulders.

“Are you all right, Miss?” He asked me, gently pulling my hands from my face. I saw him up close, and saw that he was beautiful. In his big eyes I could see that he saw through me, that he recognized something in my soul that I tried to deny was there at all, and that made me cry harder.

“Hang tight for one sec,” he said, and I buried my face in my hands again. He loaded his guitar into its case and strapped the case over his coat. “Why don’t we get you something to eat, darlin’. You look like nobody’s been feeding you for some time.”

He guided me up the stairs to 125th Street, one arm gently behind my back to push me forward. I went with him willingly. He steered me into a small diner, sitting opposite of me in a booth and pushing his napkin at me. He settled his guitar next to him in the booth, sitting up like it too was a customer. I couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of a man and his guitar regarding me, but I got myself under control when the waitress came and told him he had to put it under the table or outside, take a pick. He complied before she brought us each a cup of coffee. I counted the money I had with me in my head; I’d made about four dollars in tips today, most of it in quarters. I tried to only carry my subway money when I could, since some of the girls at the Martha Washington had been robbed, but I’d traded some of the loose change for a two dollar bill out of the manager’s wallet in exchange for a kiss on the cheek. I knew I owed it to this stranger to pay for our coffee and food; as long as he didn’t order the special or anything we might be fine.

He waited until I’d had some of my coffee before asking any questions.

“What’s been going on?” He began, and I felt my throat tighten at that. Without knowing me at all, he somehow knew just what to say and ask to make me feel both homesick and at home.

“I’m so sorry,” I began. “I don’t mean to bother you. I just heard you playing and it was so beautiful that it broke my heart, but I should leave you alone now. Let me pay for your coffee and I’ll let you get on your way.” He shook his head.

“I know I’m a fab musician, but that wasn’t enough to break a heart. I suspect your heart was already broken, and the music just let you on to it.”

I started crying again. “How could you know that?”

He smiled and shrugged. “I’m no mind reader, but I have a pretty good idea about what people are feeling. What can I say? I’m a lover.”

I laughed a little at that. “What’s your name?”

He put a hand to his chest, affronted. “I didn’t introduce myself yet? My mama would have my hide for that. I guess I’ve been in New York long enough to lose my manners. My name is Jasper.”

“I’m Bella,” I replied.

“So Bella,” Jasper said. “Tell me your story.”

And like that, I’d made a friend in New York City. Jasper was 26 and from Texas, had moved to New York City in 1963, and lived with some other artists in Greenwich Village. What he was doing in East Harlem, I couldn’t say, but I eventually learned that he’d been busted for busking in the East Village enough that he figured he’d try other spots to avoid further tickets and arrests. By day, he worked as a plumber, but every free evening he had he spent busking and writing. He preferred being called a poet over musician. He had four younger sisters back in Texas, and he sent much of his paycheck home to keep them clothed and fed. He called his father “daddy” and talked of their troubled relationship.

I told Jasper some of my own history; I omitted the parts a lady just doesn’t talk about, but I did tell him that college was my goal. Jasper’s friendship meant more to me than I could say. He never came on to me, explaining that he had a sister my age and that I reminded him too much of her.

“Down to your hair,” he said, “except she’s blonde, like me.”

After I met Jasper, my luck changed for the better. I had a bit more energy and got a library card. I checked out _To Kill a Mockingbird, The Feminine Mystique, The Group, Catch-22_ , and _A Moveable Feast_. Books I hadn’t been allowed to read in Seattle. Jasper recommended poetry for me to read, and I loved _Ariel_ by Sylvia Plath so much I bought it. I was happier, and that happiness seemed to attract new people to me.

One afternoon at Bloomingdale’s, I let one of the ladies in the makeup department do my makeup while I was on my break. I’d only been smoking casually since moving away from home. My mother, before she left, smoked relentlessly. I associated the smell of Philip Morris cigarettes with my mother, but in New York the smell wasn’t that much of a comfort, so I’d taken to rolling my own, and that day I was out of papers. The girl at the makeup counter, Victoria, surprised me by powdering the side of my face untouched by my birthmark.

Victoria was beautiful in a strange way, her hair unnaturally red. “I’m a blonde by birth but a redhead by trade,” she told me conspiratorially while she painted my lips pink. She turned a small mirror my way to show me her handiwork.

“Wow,” I said, my hands flying to my face. In leaving my birthmark alone I still looked like myself, but my eyes looked darker and my lips looked bigger with the makeup.

“You don’t have to buy anything,” Victoria assured me as I struggled for words. “But if you do, make sure you buy it from me so I make commission.”

“I look pretty.”

Victoria smiled at me. “No. You look sexy.”

Back at the lunch counter, I handed out sandwiches with the other counter girl. Jessica was a few years older than me and living with a man in a one bedroom apartment in Tribeca. Unmarried! It was so bohemian it made me feel keyed up to think about it.

“Excuse me,” I heard a soft voice say. I looked up from the trays I was preparing. “You have the most unique face I’ve just about ever seen.” Before me was a short girl whose age I couldn’t quite determine. She had a mod black bob and icy blue eyes and was dressed stylishly, which was the norm for Bloomingdale’s clientele.

“Um, thank you,” I said. I handed her a tray I’d freshly prepared.

“Are you due a break soon?” She asked. “I’d love to share a cigarette with you.”

I told her I’d just finished my break, but something made me tell her that I’d be off work soon. I didn’t have a shift at the pancake house until the next day, so when she invited me to come to a party that night, I jumped at the opportunity. I couldn’t believe I was going to a party. I called Jasper on my last break and left a message with one of the other men in his apartment; he called me back on the work line when he got home and offered to escort me and my new friend to the party.

Mary Alice, my new friend, met up with Jasper and me in front of the Martha Washington. I didn’t know what to wear to the party, so I had on my belted blue dress without a collar. I had few clothes in Seattle and fewer in New York; my wardrobe was limited to my stockings, my blue dress, a brown striped dress, a brown skirt, a few white shirts, a green sweater, and my work uniforms, not counting my outerwear. I still fit into my blue slipper-shoes even with my feet swollen from work. Jasper had on some nice checked slacks, a sweater, and a plaid sportcoat. He’d gelled his hair back and he looked quite handsome. Mary Alice’s mouth dropped when he introduced himself in his Southern accent.

“Where have you been all my life?” She asked him. Just like that, they were an item.

The party that night was in a studio loft on East 47th Street; a great silvery oasis covered in tin foil and mirrors. All the action there centered around a thin man in a black turtleneck. Mary Alice introduced him to me as Andy, and told me to refer to the studio as the Factory.

“I’m Bella Swan,” I said.

Andy clasped my hand in his and brought it to his face. “My own swan,” he said. “You have to let me put you in a movie. My own telling of Swan Lake. You’ll be my Odette.”

He called me Odette the rest of the night, but the night was a bit of a blur because I kept being handed glasses of champagne. As the night wore on, Jasper pulled out of his coat pocket a joint and passed that around. Time moved strangely and I felt myself falling into and out of Mary Alice’s lap.

“Let’s get you up,” I remember her saying at one point. The next I knew I was out on the street, rolling a cigarette. Jasper lit it for me and I felt more lucid with each drag. There was a group of us on the street; Mary Alice and Jasper and Andy and a man called Gerald and a thin girl my height called Edie and me. I was surrounded by fab people and they wanted me to come around again, they said. I felt myself smiling like a dope, so I put the cigarette in my mouth as the cold December wind picked up.

A flash went off, and I saw Andy had a camera in his hands.

“You naughty boy,” I scolded drunkenly.

“It’s time to get you home,” someone said, and before I knew it, I was waking up in my bed at the Martha Washington, fully clothed, mouth stale, but content.

Alice told me I could drop the “Mary” from her name. She told me about how the four-bedroom apartment she lived in in the East Village had an empty room, and I could live there for $100 a month. That would save me twenty dollars a month! I jumped at the opportunity and lugged over my single suitcase to the apartment the next day. As a housewarming gift, Jasper gave me an autoharp; I’d mentioned that Jeanne at Pike Place Market had taught me to play hers, and hearing him play made me itchy to play music too. I cried over it and promised to pay him back. He looked over at Alice and smiled a bit, telling me that I already did.

With the money I saved on rent, I was able to buy some makeup from Victoria’s counter. I bought records with the spare money as the months went on. I gorged myself on books and music and stopped dining out. Months flew by and I grew more and more connected to Andy’s group, finding myself on set for a few of his movies. I was on screen for a few seconds here and there, usually edited out because I begged him to. I couldn’t bear my father seeing any of the movies. They were provocative and raw and absolutely the opposite of what my father watched, so I shouldn’t have been as worried as I was, but since I skipped calling him on Christmas and missed his birthday in February, I felt too guilty to be in public. New York was supposed to be my hideaway, and here it was, having the nerve to become a place for me to thrive.

Alice encouraged me to tell a doctor I was older and get on The Pill, so I could make love to any of the gentlemen who mingled with Andy’s crowd, but I was afraid to do so. I settled for listening to Alice’s stories of how Jasper’s body moved in hers, how it felt so natural and free. She told me she never understood the term “making love” until Jasper, and I longed for that for myself. I’d thought I’d found it before, but I was mistaken. It was better for my heart-- and my body, I reasoned-- to remain celibate.

In April, at Bloomingdale’s, I got a feeling about a woman I was serving. Alice had described to me the feeling she got when she met me; she said she knew our destinies were entwined. This woman was tall and blonde, wearing round blue glasses and blue makeup around her eyes.

“Excuse me,” I said to her when I got sent to take my break. “Can I offer you a cigarette outside?”

She raised an eyebrow at me. “I can smoke in here, thanks.” Her voice sounded a bit like a Southern Lauren Bacall.

“I can’t,” I gestured to my uniform. “I’d like to invite you to a party, but I figured I’d get to know you a little first.”

She followed me to the street. She turned down the hand-rolled cigarette I offered her, pulling out her own pack of mentholated Newports. I ended up smoking a Newport with her, my mouth feeling strange and tangy with the mint on top of the tobacco.

“I’m Bella Swan,” I said. “But I have a friend named Andy who calls me Odette. I think he’d love you.”

The woman-- Rosalie, she said her name was-- was unimpressed until I told her that Andy made movies. She lit up and came to the party at the Factory that night.

Rosalie and Andy hit it off right away. Soon she was part of the group of girls Andy referred to as his “superstars.” Alice belonged to that group, but I resisted the label. I felt like a girl living a grown woman’s life. I was out of place but in the right place, or so it felt. I had two good girlfriends, a small but growing collection of music, a library card, and a room in an apartment. I had two jobs that paid me well enough, and I was learning to cook meals small enough for one person. In Seattle, I’d always cooked for my father; seven months away from home hadn’t lessened the tension I felt in my stomach whenever I thought of him. Still, something in my life was missing, and I wondered if I would always feel that way.

By June, my feeling of wonder and luck starts to dissipate. I spend my evenings at home with Alice and Jasper, listening to music and smoking pot, which I find makes me mellow and sappy. When we go out, I don’t drink; I’m only 17 and the drinking age in New York is 18. I could get away with it, especially with Andy by my side, but I still feel the constraints of being a police officer’s daughter. In Washington, the drinking age was 21. Life is routine for the first time since July of last year, when the world spun out from under me, and I don’t know if I like it or if I feel like it’s something that just can’t last.

“Stella,” Rosalie says when I answer the phone. I didn’t have a phone when I was living in the women’s hotel, so having one feels like a luxury. We have a television too, a gift from our housemate Bree’s parents. Rosalie calls me Stella, she says, because I should “be a star.” She wants me to be credited in the movies Andy makes as “Stella Bella.” I think she’s a gas, but so does she. Rosalie can be quite egotistical.

“Stella, we’re going to Max’s Kansas City tonight, me and Andy and Gerald. Say you’ll come too,” she begs.

“I don’t know, Rosalie…” I begin.

“Blue,” she reminds me. She came up with that silly nickname a few weeks back and has been trying like the devil to make it stick.

“Blue, Rosalie, whoever you are. I have work tomorrow morning at the pancake house,” I complain.

“Stella. Don’t be a drag. You can invite Alice and Jasper. Please say you’ll come,” she says. I have to say yes; Rosalie never says “please.”

I’ve bought more clothes since moving into the apartment with Alice and Bree and Jane. I’ve also been gifted clothes from all three of them, although I’m taller than Alice and thinner than Bree and bustier than Jane. Alice worked as a seamstress when she lived in Cleveland; when the clothes I was given didn’t fit right, she yanked them off me and worked some magic on her sewing machine and just like that I had a closet of clothes that fit me like gloves. For the drinks at Max’s, I put on my mustard turtleneck over my brown prairie skirt and boots. I do my makeup darker than I typically do, almost reminiscent of the time I let Victoria do my face, and I borrow Alice’s brown Lucite hoop earrings.

At the club, Alice looks more stylish than even Rosalie. She’s got on a voluminous pink nightie that she made from a pattern. It’s not see-through but looks like it might be, and we both notice men staring at her intently with the desire to see if it does show some more skin. Rosalie pouts a bit, even though she still gets attention in her nifty dress. She’s wearing some Parisian designer; she looks like she comes from money, and she does. The club is loud and sort of boring without Jasper. I think he feels as uncomfortable in nice establishments as I do; he declined the invitation to come tonight. When Rosalie asks me to get drinks for her and Andy, I get up without my usual fuss.

I do hate to order drinks at bars. I feel like such a phony, being 17 and all, and I feel even worse when the bartenders don’t give me flak or ask me how old I am. In Seattle, all I wanted was to look older, to be older. Now that I do, I don’t like it so much.

There’s a new man at the table when I come back with the drinks. He’s tall; taller than Jasper, I’d imagine. His hair isn’t really red or blond or brown, but somewhere between the three; when he turns to look at me as Rosalie shouts my arrival, I look down.

I’m always nervous around new men. When I explained to Alice and Jasper why I left Seattle, they assured me that it’s normal to be cautious and wary. Although I had the urge to cut all my hair off when I left Seattle, I kept it long for the protection it provides. Alice recently cut her already-short hair all the way off, so she looks a bit like that British model but with dark hair. Still, I kept my hair long. It’s longer even than Rosalie’s hair, a fact that I think bothers her at times. She likes to be the most of everything.

The man moves out of my way so I can slide into the booth. I squeeze up against Alice to get some space between me and the man, but Andy invites him to sit with us and he does. His hip is touching mine so lightly; although I can’t feel his heat through the layers of fabric separating us, I am uncomfortably aware of his presence at my side. My elbow touches his arm accidentally, and I feel myself involuntarily shudder. I’m not really listening to him talk to Andy, but when Andy tells me to introduce myself, I fight the desire to be rude and obey Andy’s directive.

I look up at the man and am struck by his eyes. They’re green, clear and green. Green like Tukwila, green like the forest and sea of my hometown. I’m stopped up for a moment because all at once I’m drunk on his green eyes. His thick brow furrows at my scrutiny, and I am overwhelmed with a feeling I can’t name, something I’ve never felt before.

“I’m Bella Swan,” I say. As soon as I’ve said it, I realize that I might not have spoken loud enough for him to hear me over the din of the back room.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bella,” he says, his voice like a rich caramel. He’s got a deeper voice than Paul Simon, not at all nasal like Bob Dylan. “I’m Edward Masen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garfield High School is a real high school in Seattle. It educated lots of musicians who grew up in Seattle, the most notable of late being Macklemore (whose music isn't as good as The Blue Scholars, the Seattle hip hop duo who supported Macklemore during his years in the strictly Seattle scene). 
> 
> The monorail was unveiled at the Seattle World's Fair in 1962. I've ridden it a number of times and remember vividly when the two trains that run the track crashed in 2005. It was front page in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, a paper which no longer is printed. (It was better than the Seattle Times, IMHO.) It's not a real method of transportation in the sense that no one uses it for commuting. It's very touristy and not a great way to view the city. Neither is the Space Needle- if you come to Seattle to see the sights, go to the top of Columbia Tower (where I had my prom) and you'll be able to see the Space Needle, a view you won't get if you ride to the top of the actual Space Needle.
> 
> IHOP opened on Lexington in NYC in 1965. It wasn't called IHOP until the 70s, hence why Bella refers to it as "the pancake house."
> 
> Max's Kansas City was a popular club where Warhol and his friends all congregated regularly, when they weren't hanging out at the original Factory in Midtown. The Factory moved to its second location in the Flatiron District in 1967.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! I love to talk about history and Twilight and welcome any and all messages.


	3. Le temps de l'amour

**June 17, 1966**

**New York City**

**Edward**

Seeing the girl from the photo-- Bella-- makes the bar feel a thousand miles away. It’s like lightning. I’m out of place and all stirred up and it feels like we’re alone even though I know we aren’t.

“Well, aren’t you drawing designs over Stella?” Blue says, breaking the reverie. I glance up at her. She’s not smiling, not really. She’s sucking on her cigarette holder and looking at Bella much more carefully than before.

“Oh, come off it, Rosalie,” the girl on Bella’s other side says. She’s flushed pink and her head is bobbing a bit even as she sits still. I think she’s blitzed. 

“Bella is a _doll_ and I think she should--” the rest of what she has to say is pretty garbled. She _is_ blitzed. Bella wraps an arm around the girl and rubs her shoulder.

“I think we should get you home, Alice,” she says to her friend. She turns to me in her seat. “Excuse me.”

I choke a bit on my drink and struggle with my thoughts. I don’t know what’s come over me; I want to see more of Bella, want to take her photo, want to make love to her, want to get to _know_ her. I should ask for her phone number and then write it down in my address book. I should call that number in a day or two and ask her if she’d like to take a walk or something. Or I should figure out what a real date would be, since I haven’t gone on a real date since high school when I took Judy to the soda fountain, but I’d borrowed my old man’s car back then, and after we had our malts I drove us to the Garfield Park Conservatory and she let me screw her in the backseat. If Bella is as young as she looks, is she a virgin? Would she even want to go on a date?

I realize I’m probably sitting with my eyes bugging out of my head, not moving out of the way. My mouth is agape-- I must look like such a trout.

“Let me-- I mean, may I escort you home?” I stutter. 

“Um…” Bella says, brushing hair out of her face. “That might be nice. We live on 6th and Avenue C.” 

“Great!” I say, a little too enthusiastically. That’s pretty close to my place over Tompkins Square Park. Without meaning to, I slam the rest of my drink back, choking on the fizz. I feel a bit of it bubble into my nose and for a second I’m afraid I’ll sneeze on her but it passes. I stand up and move out of the way so Bella can pull her friend out of the booth. 

“Sorry to beat feet, Andy,” I say. 

“Never say sorry for being a gentleman,” Andy says. “But _do_ say you’ll come by the Factory this week and show me what you’re working on. You always promise. Don’t make yourself a liar.”

I nod. “I won’t. I mean, I will come by. You know what I mean. I gotta--” I cut myself off. I’m not much for talking, but I’m rarely tongue-tied. Something about this Bella has gotten under my skin, into my blood. I’m a different person than I was this morning, and I feel pretty wigged out about it. I feel about as different as day and night.

Bella and I create a sort of human clamp around her friend, who thankfully is still upright and walking. I wonder if she’d been over served until I grab an arm and feel how rail thin it is. It’s like holding a rope. 

Outside the club, we find a bench and sit her friend down.

“Thank you,” Bella says. “She’s not usually like this…”

I run a hand through my hair. Even though it’s night, it’s still pretty humid; my head is sweaty, and my hair holds the shape my hand moves it in. I try to smooth it down a bit but worry that I look like a nork for playing with my hair so much.

“You think we should hail a cab?” I ask. I’ve got less than two dollars on me, but I know the gentlemanly thing to do would be to pay for the ride. I do the math in my head, but I don’t take cabs so I don’t know the exact fares; she said they live on 6th and C, so which puts them about a mile away…

“That sounds like a good idea.” She looks at her friend, whose chin is wobbling as she tries to put some thoughts together to say. 

“I just-- I wanted to-- I mean--” her friend says. Her face is loose and her eyes are slits. “I don’t know about you,” she slurs. “But I think I’m going to barf.”

Bella freezes. Her friend rests her head on my shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” I ask. I don’t mean the friend. Bella nods slowly.

“I’m not too good with vomit,” she says quietly. “But with Alice, she doesn’t necessarily mean she’s going to any second now. It could be imminent or she could be sick in a few hours. She’s got a wicked sense of premonition.” 

“Is Alice your friend here?” I ask. “We weren’t introduced.”

“Yes, that’s Alice,” she says. She wrings her hands, and I see that they’re elegant things. Long, pale fingers with long, clean nails. Works of art. _Worthy of photographing_ , I think.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask. She seems a bit perturbed. Bella sighs and looks at Alice, who is rolling her head on my shoulder.

“I didn’t want to come tonight,” she admits. “I thought it might end up with me playing nurse to Alice or Rosalie. I wish Jasper had come so he could care for her.”

“Who is Jasper?” I ask. I’m putting it together that Alice and Bella live together, maybe in a boarding house. All of the boarding houses I’d stayed in had been men only; the idea of a co-ed house is bohemian and strange. Surely it would have to have separate bathrooms? And Bella living with Alice means that she doesn’t live with her parents, which could mean that she’s older than she looks… I’m at a loss, and it’s frustrating.

“Jasper’s a friend,” Bella says distractedly. I wonder if he’s more than a friend, and my stomach turns sour at the thought. Beside me, Alice starts to cough and Bella scrambles away as I push her forward, so she’s bent over the sidewalk. In this position, Alice catches her breath, although she’s gasping a little, making little moans here and there.

“We really ought to get her home,” I suggest. Bella cringes. Then an idea hits me.

“Hey,” I say. “There’s a payphone over there. Let me get you a dime and you can call Jasper to come take care of her.” Bella looks where I’m pointing.

“That’s a great idea,” she says. “But I don’t want to make him pay for a cab. How about I call him and ask him to take care of her, but we’ll drop her off at his place in Greenwich?” 

“Sure,” I say, my stomach fluttering at the way she said _we_. I pull a loose dime out of my pocket and toss it to her. She reaches to catch it but it misses her hand by about a mile.

“I’m such a klutz,” She says, picking it up from the sidewalk. Bella scurries away to the phonebooth and I’m mesmerized by the way her skirt swishes as she walks. She’s something else.

Alice is still bent over, her head dangling over her shoes. I can hear her saying something while Bella is dialing the phone, so I bend down to get a better listen. 

“What was that?” I prompt. 

“You’re gonna be…” she begins before hiccuping. 

“What?”

“You’re gonna be… a good thing.” She says definitively. Then she gags and blows chunks all over her shoes.

I pull my handkerchief out of my pocket and pat her on the back as she cries a bit. I hand it to her as I help her situate herself on the bench so she’s sort of half sitting down, half lying in my lap. She wipes her mouth and tries to hand me back the soiled hankie, but I insist she can hold onto it a while longer. 

Bella is watching us from the phonebooth, her face pretty pale and a little green. I hope we can clean Alice up well enough to get a cab to take us to Greenwich. 

I let Alice catch her breath a little from my lap while Bella finishes her phone call. When she seems settled, I prod her shoulder.

“Alice,” I start. “What do you mean, that I’m gonna be a… good thing?” If I had my glasses on, I’d be pushing them up my nose. Normally I can talk to people just fine. I have to, for work. Most of the girls in Warhol’s group don’t make me feel so tongue-tied; I could shoot the shit with the girls who made even the queer guys look twice. It was the quiet girls, the girls who seemed more thoughtful that made me feel like I was a book waiting to be read. Even without anything in particular to hide, the feeling that I _couldn’t_ keep anything concealed made me want to.

From my lap, Alice sighs. I feel her shrug. “I can see you being very bad for Bella,” she says, waving the hand that held the dirty handkerchief. I can’t see her face too well, but her mannerisms remind me a bit of the Italian guys hired by the Volturi brothers at the building company. 

“I thought you said I was gonna be a good thing,” I remind her. She shrugs again. 

“I did say that,” she agrees. “I see both. She’s a little bird, Edward,” she says. I’m stunned; I can’t believe she heard my name and remembered it, given how sloshed she is.

“What does that mean?” I ask as I watch Bella hang up the phone. I want her to answer quickly, because the feeling of being easy to read is worse around Bella than Alice.

“She’s a baby bird, just a little old bird. She’s on her own in the city and she’s a baby bird.”

This means nothing to me. I almost want to laugh at how bizarre this evening is but then Bella is in front of us and I’m all nervous again.

“Hello,” I say. God, I’m such a dipstick.

“Hi,” she says. It’s a little awkward but a little sweet at the same time. The tops of her cheeks get pink. It’s weird to see her blush next to her birthmark; though her birthmark is pinkish, it’s not the same color as her blush. It looks purple in comparison on her cheek, deepening in color to almost a brown next to her eye.

“So?” Alice asks from my lap. She’s rocking her head on my thigh and it’s a little uncomfortable. Even though I’m not so keen on Alice, a good smelling girl in my lap would get me excited. Thankfully, I can smell the vomit on Alice’s breath, so which keeps me from getting fully hard.

“Jasper says we can come over to drop you off,” Bella says. “I’ll just go hail a cab. Do you think you’re okay to ride in a car, Alice?”

Alice nods, grinding her skull into my leg. 

“I’m good to go, baby,” she slurs. Bella looks concerned, but she rolls her eyes at being called ‘baby.’

“How old is Bella?” I ask Alice as Bella steps into the street. Alice throws her arm up and I have to duck a bit to miss being hit by the hankie. 

“She’s a CHILD,” Alice shouts. I shush her as well as I can, pulling her arm out of the air. So much for being conspicuous. “She’s seventeen,” Alice adds. Her words blend together and don’t make any sense to Bella, who is back in front of us, telling Alice to get in the cab.

I could let Bella take Alice to their friend’s place, but I can’t stop myself from getting into the cab with them. I feel almost high, like when Paul sold me some acid in January. It was ice cold in New York following a snow front but I felt hot and happy. I could see the energy around me, and walked for blocks in just my polo shirt, slacks, and loafers, watching people and seeing through the noise of the world to the energy that connected everyone to everything. I cried a little on a stoop in Williamsburg until a Jew chased me away. Tonight, it’s like I can see the energy between me and Bella, but it’s less of a green line of twine and more of a feeling. 

We get to Jasper’s apartment at 3rd and Sullivan in less than 10 minutes. I pay the driver $1.10 for the ride and tip him 15 cents. The guy wants to hussle me for more money, since Alice’s feet stank, but I pretend I don’t hear him and get out after the girls. I never take cabs, so I’d forgotten that cabbies shout if you don’t tip them well enough. For what feels like forever, the cabby yells at me out the window about what an asshole I am and how he ought to run me down. He’s all show and no go, though, so when he feels like he’s done enough he drives away. 

While I was dealing with the cabby, Bella took Alice up the stairs to Jasper’s building. I join them and Bella props Alice up against me, dashing down the stairs and looking up at the windows. I can’t see the apartments above us from the front door’s eave, but Bella waves to someone-- Jasper, probably-- and then cringes back as a key is tossed down. She picks it up from the pavement and unlocks the door for us to shuffle Alice in.

“I can’t catch a thing to save my life,” Bella explains. 

Jasper’s building is a dump. The air in the entrance reeks of cigarettes and something thicker, like cigars. Above the fumes of tobacco is the sweet smell of grass, but it mingles with the hot, heavy air unpleasantly. It has a dark feel to it, amplified by the plastic light fixture that has only one working bulb. The walls are stained and the linoleum floor is peeling in spots. I can’t imagine rooms here going for more than $65 a month, and I wonder what type of fellow this Jasper guy is, and what these girls have to do with him. They seemed so classy hanging out with Andy at Max’s.

Alice is leaning against the mail slots when a tall hippie comes down the stairs. I hesitate to call him a hippie when he looks almost like a beatnik; he has on corduroys that flare out like Navy pants, which automatically makes him a hippie, but his hair and thin beard are clean, and although his shirt is more of an undershirt than anything, it’s dark. 

Alice perks up at the sight of the guy, so I know it’s the fella they’ve been talking about. 

“Jazz!” She says, swaying forward. I grab her arm so she doesn’t tip onto her face. 

“Hi, baby,” he says, stepping forward to pull her from me. He wraps an arm around Alice, and the difference in height strikes me. Jasper is as tall as I am, and Alice is smaller than Bella. There’s got to be a full foot or more of difference between them. My mother, who was an inch taller than my father, used to see couples with a big height difference and snarkily whisper to me, “What a waste of space.”

I can see that Jasper and Alice are going steady, and I feel a little uncomfortable at how glad I feel that he’s not Bella’s beau. It seems wrong that I don’t know her but want to stake some claim. I’m not so much older than her that it’s unacceptable to date; a girl I went to school with back in Chicago dropped out our senior year to get married to a man in his 30s, and she was about Bella’s age. 

“Do you need help getting her up to your place?” Bella asks. She’d been so quiet waiting for Jasper. I feel a little sore that she had to offer help. I should’ve done so as soon as Jasper got down the stairs.

“No, I got her,” he says, then extends a hand for me to shake. “I’m Jasper. What’s your name?”

“Edward Masen,” I say. He’s got a firm handshake. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this guy is clearly more put together than I gave him credit for. 

“What line of work are you in, Edward?” He asks me, and I feel like I’m being questioned by a father before taking his daughter on a date. 

“I guess you could say I’m a journalist. I take pictures for the Bronx Press-Review.” I shrug. It’s weird that taking pictures is my job. I would never have guessed that I’d be paid to do something I picked up as a hobby seven years ago. It felt like a fever dream, buying my Minolta SR-T _brand new_. 

Jasper is clearly surprised by this. I wonder if I look more or less preppy than he imagined a journalist would. 

“Neat,” he says. “I’m a plumber. You can give me a call if you need someone to take a look at your pipes.”

“Thank you,” I say, somewhat awkwardly. “You let me know if you ever… need a picture taken, or something.”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” he says, and it seems like he’s going to say something else but Alice starts to heave a bit. Bella steps back, pressing into me in the tiny entryway. I put my hands on her arms to steady her and also keep her at a distance from me. I don’t want her to think I’m a pervert. I want her to think I’m a gentleman.

“Let me give you some money to get Bella home,” Jasper says, reaching into his pocket. 

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ve got change for the subway,” Bella says, but Jasper has a two dollar bill in his hand and he’s pushing it at Bella. She protests a bit but then accepts the money bashfully.

“Get her home safe,” Jasper orders as he whisks Alice onto his back, carrying her like I used to carry my sister. I’m struck by the memory of her so suddenly in the moment that all I can do is nod.

On the street, the air feels wet and warm. Walking feels like swimming, in a good way. I check my watch; it’s only 10.

“It’s not so late, now, is it?” Bella asks from beside me. I look down at her; she doesn’t have a handbag or anything. _She’s free as a bird_ , I think. _Like Alice said_.

“It’s a little past 10,” I agree. We walk in silence without really any direction in mind, just strolling down West 3rd Street. There’s music in the air, coming from the bar at the corner of MacDougal and Minetta Lane before Bleecker. I can make out the chords to “Like a Rolling Stone” but the music is distorted, the sound so different from Bob Dylan. Bella and I stop at the corner of 3rd and MacDougal just to listen for a moment.

“I love Bob Dylan,” Bella says. She’s swaying a bit to the music, not quite dancing.

“Do you want to stop in?” I ask, tipping my head towards the bar. I’ve been to Cafe Wha? A few times. The house band has been pretty decent this year; I can’t remember their full name, but the guy leading them is pretty incredible. Jimmy something. Jimmy James and the somethings…

Bella looks unsure. 

“I’ll take you home now if you want. But I’d love to have a dance with you, if you’ll let me.” My palms feel clammy and my stomach is all wobbly. I’m the opposite of suave, and that makes me cringe a bit more.

“I have work early tomorrow,” Bella says, “but one song won’t hurt.” 

I smile and impulsively take her hand. “The band’s great.”

Inside, the club is hopping. It’s Friday; everyone in Greenwich is either at a party or a club, shaking off the order and authority of the week. Bella and I squeeze to the dancefloor, where first we just watch everyone. 

“What do you think?” I lean down to her ear so I don’t have to shout so much to be heard, but I still have to raise my voice. 

“It’s nothing like the sock hops I’ve been to,” Bella shouts back. I can feel her hot breath in my ear and I shiver, even though I’m boiling alive in this club. The air conditioning is the only thing keeping us all from heat stroke, I’m sure of it. 

“You couldn’t do the Mashed Potato here, that’s for sure,” I agree. 

The chords change and the girls in the club squeal and push closer to the stage. The band is playing “Wild Thing” by the Troggs, but the guitarist is hitting the chords in such a way the music can only be described as _funky_. He’s got a deeper, raspier voice than Reg Presley of the Troggs; it suits the song.

“Want to dance?” I ask Bella. She nods and I pull her close on the floor.

I know how to do some ballroom dancing, but I’m not really good at the jive steps or any of the cool dancing at clubs. Bella clearly knows more than I do, but she steps on my feet so often it’s like she’s stomping grapes. I can’t follow her worth beans, but I won’t complain because dancing with her is fun. 

She lets me pull her close to sway against my chest when the band plays a cover of the Beatles “Rain.” She turns her head up to look at me, her cheek with the birthmark on it resting against my chest.

“I love this song,” she says. I can’t hear her but I can read her lips. I nod and try to really pay attention to the song; I clearly haven’t given the Beatles enough credit. The song is good, slow enough to hold a chick close while dancing, but with enough tempto to still move. 

When the song ends, I ask her if she wants to get some air and she agrees. We step outside and she leans against the building as I pull out my Winstons.

“That song reminds me of home,” she says wistfully, accepting the cigarette I offer her.

“Where is home?” I ask as I lean in to light it for her. Bella inhales deeply and coughs a bit. It’s charming; she’s pretending to be a more experienced smoker than she actually is. I fight a smile as she tries to stifle her cough.

“I’m from Seattle.”

“I’ve never been,” I say around my cigarette. I wonder if I should blow try to blow a smoke ring or if I’d just look like a dork.

Bella sighs and shakes her head.

“It could get so dreary. It didn’t snow like it does out here,” she says, playing with her cigarette more than smoking it. “I thought I’d be fine with the cold here, but I had to buy a new coat.”

“It’s not cold now,” I point out. 

“No,” she agrees. “But it’s muggy. Seattle heat is more dry, even though it’s a rainier climate.”

“Do you miss it?” I ask. She looks at me thoughtfully before answering.

“No. But ask me again tomorrow.” I feel delighted that she wants to see me tomorrow.

We finish our cigarettes in companionable silence. Inside, the band announces a break. I check my watch and see that it’s nearly midnight. 

“Do you want to dance some more? Or…” I don’t really know what to suggest, but I don’t feel ready to end our night together. 

“I could dance some more,” Bella says. I’m thrilled when she takes my hand to go back inside. 

Instead of making our way to the dance floor, we miraculously find an empty table in the back. I get us drinks; a Tom Collins and a Manhattan. Bella admits to not drinking frequently and tries both, deciding she prefers the Manhattan. We sip our drinks and chat about how we know Andy.

“I met him through Alice,” Bella says.

“I met him at The Factory,” I tell her. “I needed a darkroom and my friend Paul told me Andy might let me use his.”

“He’s been asking me to be in a movie,” Bella says, leaning in close. “I’ve been in some of his pictures, just here and there, but he’s really pushing me to be in his next movie.” 

“Are you going to do it?” I ask her. “He mentioned his next movie was going to be at a hotel.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t want to be in anything my father might see.” 

I want to know more, but I don’t want to be glib and ask. 

“You don’t have to decide right away,” I remind her. “I bet he lets you help out on set. Get a feel for what he wants and make your choice then. You don’t have to commit to anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

She smiles and takes my hand across the table.

“Thank you,” she says.

“What are you thanking me for?” I don’t understand why she’s thanking me. In the low light of the club, her face is cut by shadow. The dark and light fit together like puzzle pieces and I want to hold her close again, want to kiss her. But I know how young she is and I don’t want to push her; it would be the nastiest thing, to tell her not to be uncomfortable and then make her uncomfortable. I couldn’t do it.

“You’ve been very nice to me tonight. Just… thank you.” She looks down at our hands. I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb. Her skin is soft and wonderful.

The music starts up again, but we don’t get up to dance. We just sit and look at each other, smiling occasionally. She’s beautiful. We’re not talking but it feels like we’re getting to know each other anyway. 

“Thank you! This is Jimmy James and the Blue Flames, good night!” The band leader shouts from the stage, breaking our trance. We both stand up, a little shaky from the intensity of the evening, and Bella doesn’t resist as I pull her to my side. We walk out with my arm around her.

“Where do you live?” I ask her as we walk over to 6th Avenue. She said the cross streets earlier but it’s a little hazy.

“I live in the East Village,” she says. _Right!_

“With Alice?” I ask.

“Yes,” Bella says, snaking an arm around my waist. I feel electric with the glow that she’s claiming me, that we’re both holding each other as we walk. “And Bridget, and Jane. It’s a four-bedroom.”

“Wow,” I say. “Four people in an apartment.”

“When I first moved here I lived at the Martha Washington. It’s so much nicer to have real space, even if it is a bit cramped, than it is to live in a hotel.”

“I stayed at the YMCA for a bit when I first got to New York,” I tell her. I’m surprised that I’m revealing this; I never talk about myself if I can help it, and here I go, spilling my guts like it’s my job.

“What was that like?” She asks.

“Um, it wasn’t so bad,” I say. “But it was a little too queer for me. I have an apartment in Alphabet City now, over Tompkins Square Park.” 

“I live in Alphabet City too!” Bella exclaims. 

“We can share a cab home,” I suggest. As much as I love to walk, it’s near 4 in the morning, and the park is unsafe after dark. I’d been held up by a guy with a knife a time or two, and I didn’t want to put Bella in any danger.

Bella agrees and lets me hail the cab. She gets in the cab first, then scoots close to me when I get in after her. I’m warm and tingly from her wanting to be close to me, and she doesn’t seem to mind when I sling an arm around her shoulders. For someone who feels as uncool as I do all the time, I’m feeling pretty groovy.

I get out with Bella at her cross streets, not wanting to pay the cab to backtrack to my apartment. I figure I’ll be on my way when Bella invites me up.

“Do you want to listen to a record or two? I can make us a cup of coffee,” she says. 

“Yes,” I say, almost before she’s done asking. We hold hands the whole walk up to her shared apartment, save for when Bella pulls her keys out of her pocket and uses both hands to unlock the door.

“The handle sticks,” she says by way of apology. I don’t mind one bit.

I expected her apartment to be dark, but the lights are on when she lets us in. A heavyset blonde is sitting on the floor next to an overflowing ceramic ashtray shaped like the state of Minnesota. Her makeup is smudged and she’s clearly been crying.

“Hello, Jane,” Bella greets her roommate. “This is Edward.”

Jane snuffles and stubs out her cigarette. 

“You’re very sweaty,” she says to Bella. “You look terrible.” 

“I’m going to make coffee,” Bella says through gritted teeth. I’m at a loss as to what to do with myself. I sit down on the couch and wait for the water to boil, relieved when Bella brings me a mug.

“Let me show you my bedroom,” she says. Jane watches us and snickers as Bella flushes when we stop at her door.

“She’s redder than a cherry,” Jane comments out loud. She’s pretty, sure, but she’s a real nasty person.

“Sorry about Jane,” Bella says. “Oh. Um… I don’t have a record player here. I just share one with the girls.”

“That’s okay,” I say. Bella’s bed is situated in the middle of her small room, and I sit down on it. I’m sort of just taking in the sights of her room when I notice her breathing change. 

“You okay?” I ask. I pat the space beside me on her bed to invite her to sit down. It’s ridiculous, I realize, but it feels like she needs some kind of comfort. 

Bella shakes her head and remains standing by the door, clutching her coffee. I feel this ache to be near her but I resist it; clearly she needs some space for the moment.

“Um… I don’t know what I was thinking, asking you up here,” she says. 

“Do you want me to leave?” I ask. She shakes her head again.

“No, no. I just… I don’t know if I can make love to you. I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice is small.

“That’s fine,” I say. “We don’t have to make love tonight. We don’t have to, ever. I don’t want to upset you.” 

She looks more relieved than I feel when I say that. I’m relieved she doesn’t want me to go, albeit disappointed she doesn’t want to have sex; I feel a deep twinge of desire to be inside her, but I can see what Alice said earlier is true. Bella is a frightened bird, and I don’t want to scare her to death. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. She sips her coffee and sits on the bed. 

“There’s nothing to thank me for, silly girl,” I whisper back. She rests her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her back. I toe my shoes off and move around on the bed until I’m sitting against the headboard. 

Bella bends down to unlace her boots, then climbs over me to rest her head on me. The overhead light is off, but she’s switched on her bedside lamp, leaving the room in a warm, orange glow. We don’t talk, we just rest against the bed, our hearts syncopating, so close but still so separate. I play with a lock of her hair; it’s as soft as a feather, and before I know it, she’s asleep on my chest. I feel myself fade away as well, content in the summer heat and the warmth of this new girl feeling comfortable enough to sleep in my arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today- I wanted to move the story along, not just have two chapters up where they meet at the end of each chapter. I'll have the 4th chapter up in a week or so! 
> 
> Fun fact: Cafe Wha? is a real club in Greenwich Village, and it hosted Jimi Hendrix's first self-led band in 1966. Jimmy James and the Blue Flames covered songs by The Beatles, Bob Dylan, and many other greats I just couldn't include. They toyed around with early versions of "Hey Joe." Cafe Wha? is where Jimi was discovered by Chas Chandler, the bassist for The Animals (whose music they also covered) and recruited to go to London to record music for the Jimi Hendrix Experience. 
> 
> The title is a Françoise Hardy song- give it a listen. It's great. I love the yéyé music from France in the '60s, and when I lived in France I visited Serge Gainsbourg's house in Saint-Germain-des-Près. It's awesome and you should go too if you have the chance.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	4. Take It Easy

**June 18, 1966**

**New York City**

**Bella**

My neck feels funny when my alarm goes off at six in the morning, and as I lean over to turn it off I realize I’m not sleeping on my right side as I normally do. I’m cuddled up against Edward, the left side of my face pressed against his collarbone. I have to crawl over him to turn my alarm off before it wakes Bree and Jane and Alice--  _ Alice! _ We left her at Jasper’s last night after she drank too much at Max’s Kansas City. The memories of last night feel so strange, as if they were a lucid dream. I know it all happened, since I can see the cups of coffee on my floor, and Edward is under me, groggily rubbing his eyes. His hair is so much redder in the morning light, and it’s a crazy mess from sleeping with his head pressed against my wall.

“What time is it?” He slurs, voice raspy with sleep. We got back to the apartment a bit before four in the morning, so we’ve only gotten about two hours of sleep, maybe less. I feel the exhaustion down to my bones, but I’m also more alert than usual. I have to get to work in the next hour, and if I don’t get ready now I’ll be late.

“It’s six. Um… I have to go to work now. But you can go back to sleep if you want to,” I whisper. I realize my bedside light is still on, and I turn it off. Edward shifts below me and I realize I’m still in his lap; I hurriedly jump off the bed and flick through my tiny closet for my pressed work dress and apron, then rifle through my tiny dresser for hose and underwear. I’m still in my brassiere from last night, and it’s pinching my sides. I realize I’ll either have to change here in my room, in front of Edward, or take my things with me to the bathroom. 

All at once, I’m self conscious and awkward again, like I was when I lived in Seattle. Alice and Rosalie talked me up enough for me to forget my body, but being in front of a man made me remember it again. My skin is sensitized to my clothing in a way it never was; I can feel the material of my turtleneck pressed against my stomach, the chafe of my stockings against my calves. Deciding I’m being stupid, I turn around and look at Edward sternly.

“Don’t look. I need to get dressed.” 

Obediently, Edward closes his eyes and covers his face with his hands. He yawns a bit, stretched a bit and settled. When I feel sure he wasn’t looking, I turn and quickly strip off my brassiere underneath my turtleneck-- a little trick I’d picked up that gave me the shivers, it felt so nice-- and then my shirt. I clasp my fresh brassiere in front of my breasts before spinning it around so my breasts fall in the cups and pull my arms through the straps. I throw on my work dress-- a light blue polyester number that flatters no one-- before stripping off my skirt and underwear. I pull up my new pair and switch my stockings for the hose, all facing away from Edward. Fully dressed, I turn back to him.

“You can look now.” 

Edward pulls his hand from his face and smiles a little half smile at me. It makes his handsome face go a little lopsided, and I admire his face all the more for it. There’s something so special about the smile, and I want to see if he has a cache of other smiles. 

“You look nice,” he says quietly. I feel flushed and duck my head to hide. 

“I don’t know if you want coffee or anything,” I say. “I usually eat at work…”

“I’m fine,” he assures me. I don’t know what else to say so I just duck out of the room and into the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my hair before pinning it up into the bun we’re supposed to wear at the pancake house. I freshen up a little with a damp washcloth; I don’t have time for a shower. I quickly apply a little rouge and lipstick before going back to my room to pick up my work shoes and slip on my commuting shoes. 

“I have to leave for work,” I tell Edward awkwardly. I don’t know if I should ask him to leave or tell him to stay. I realize I don’t know if he has plans for the day; I don’t know his schedule or what days he works or his hours. I feel so strange for letting this strange man sleep in my bed, holding me. I can’t imagine what possessed me to allow him to even get close enough to touch me. When I left Seattle, I promised myself I’d protect myself, that I’d not let anyone get too close, and here I was, already thinking about the next time I might see him.

“Can I walk you to work?” Edward asks. I’m shocked and flattered that he doesn’t seem to want our time together to come to an end.

“Well, it’s not really a doable walk,” I explain. “I work at the International House of Pancakes on Lexington. It’s in East Harlem?” 

“I know Lexington,” he says, smiling a bit. “I’ve lived in New York for nearly seven years.”

I’m impressed he’s been in New York for seven years; the idea of settling down anywhere feels foreign to me, although I guess I’ve already done it. 

“I have to take the subway to get there,” I say. 

“I know the route,” he chuckles. “Can I walk you to the subway, then?” 

I nod, and he climbs out of bed, all rumpled and manly. I wonder how old he is but I know it’s impolite to ask.

Edward holds my hand all the way to the 1st Avenue subway station. I turn to say goodbye to him and am struck by his green eyes. He gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear before tracing the outline of my birthmark. 

I have to close my eyes against the feeling; his touch is so gentle and soft, and it doesn’t feel mocking. His fingers follow the wavy outline of the birthmark down my neck to where the birthmark fades against my collarbone, then they trace back up until he’s touching my closed eye. I shiver even though it’s warm and muggy out.

“May I visit you today?” He asks softly. I nod, my eyes still shut against the sudden emotion I feel in my throat. My mother used to trace my birthmark when I was a little girl. She called it my stork bite. I’m overcome with a childish desire for my mother.

I fall against Edward and he takes me into his arms. It feels so good to be held, but his arms are a weak substitute for a hug from my mother. I swallow against the knot in my throat when I feel what I think are Edward’s lips pressing against my hair.

“I’ll see you in a bit, Bella,” he says. I nod against his chest and turn quickly, dashing down the stairs to catch the L train to work.

At work, my boss chides me for being six minutes late, but my fellow waitresses Janice and Shirley have the tables well in order. I’m younger than Janice but Shirley is a year younger than me; she shares an apartment with her mother and grandmother in the Meatpacking District and sometimes comes to work smelling a little strange. Soon enough, all perfume is overpowered by the coffee we dispense generously and the hot oil of the pancake griddles. 

Edward falls out of my mind as I fall into the rhythm of work. Perhaps not entirely out of my mind; I’m reminded of him in every green-eyed customer, although I don’t serve anyone with his exact coloring. I wait on tables with a smile that feels less forced than it usually does, and I feel closer to human after three cups of coffee. I pass on my first cigarette break because a cigarette so soon after coffee makes my stomach all wonky, but I do sit down on a milk carton in the dishwashing pit and slip my feet out of my shoes. It’s nice to not have to  _ do _ something on my break, even though I’ve grown more attached to my cigarettes as I’ve spent more time in the city.

Around ten in the morning, when the rush of the breakfast crowd has died down, Janice directs me to a table in her section. 

“He asked for you,” she says, waggling her eyebrows at me. “He’s very handsome.”

Abstractly, I wonder who it could be; he’s sitting in a booth and not at a table, and his back is to me, but he turns as I approach the table and I’m delighted that it’s Edward. 

I never once flirted when I lived in Seattle. I wasn’t a wallflower at dances, but I’d never gone steady with anyone, nor had I felt any particular yearning for the boys at school. I’d been attracted to one doctor at the hospital, but the only interested attention I welcomed was from Mr. Banner. Even with him, I didn’t dare flirt. As far as I know, I have no game, but for Edward I’m willing to try.

“Welcome to the International House of Pancakes, sir. Can I bring you some coffee while you decide what you’d like to order?” Spontaneously, I cock a hip out like I’ve seen Janice do. I feel so sassy and grown up that I’m blushing before Edward can even respond.

He’s grinning. “I’d love a cup of coffee, ma’am,” he says. He’s more respectful than my typical customers, which stirs the butterflies in my belly. 

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him. I want to race to the counter to get the coffee pot, but I have other tables to check on and I want to be a little coy. I make a quick pass by my section to be sure everything is in order and refill coffees on my way back to Edward, making note of the tables that need an extra coffee charge in my head as I go. I fill Edward’s cup and hold up a finger to tell him to wait as I scribble down the charges on my pad of receipts.

Edward thanks me for the coffee and has a sip. 

“Is there anything else I can get for you? Or would you like another minute with the menu?” I’m reciting jargon I’ve heard at restaurants where the menu offering is larger than just pancakes, eggs, and sausage. We have specials for bacon but only on certain days, never on the weekends. Weekend customers will eat no matter what; it’s the weekly crowd that needs a little enticement. 

“Do you have a light?” Edward asks. He pulls out his pack of Winstons and I shake my head at the offer of a cigarette. I’ve seen Janice duck into booths before for a quick smoke but I’d never dare. 

Instead, I pull out my book of matches and strike one with my fingernail. Edward’s eyes widen as he leans in for the light. I wave the match out after he inhales and drop the dead match to the floor, crushing it flat under my toe. It’s a habit I picked up from my father, who is terrified of fires; he always was arguing with my mother about not stubbing out her cigarettes well enough, and he never smoked cigars because he’d read they were more flammable. 

Edward notices my work with the match and smirks a bit.

“Practicing the Mashed Potato?” He asks.

“For when you take me out dancing next,” I confirm with a wink.  _ What has gotten into me? _ I wonder. Before I can flirt or embarrass myself further I turn on my heel and check in again with my section. I close out two tables and restock napkins and wipe down the counter before helping Shirley deliver steaming plates of pancakes to a table. I signal to Janice and Shirley that I’m taking my cigarette break, and sneak back to Edward’s booth.

“Switch sides for me,” I tell him, ducking my head as I slide into his side of the booth. I’ve created a jumble for the two of us; he’s sitting next to the wall and I’m blocking him in, but I hunch over the table and lift my bottom from the seat so he can squeeze beneath me. He does, but not before I feel his body below mine and in my head I’m back in my room again, curled around him, holding and being held.

“What have you got going on today?” I ask as Edward settles on the opposite side of the booth.

“I’m working today. I have some photos due,” he says, patting his side. I notice that he’s got a satchel with him, the shape odd for a man to carry; it looks almost like a woman’s handbag, but it’s black leather and cracked at one corner, with something sturdier holding the leather together in the strange shape.

“Can I see them?” I ask. 

He chuckles. “Not yet,” he says. “They’re still on film. I hadn’t planned to stay at the office to look at the negatives, but I could if you’re really keen on seeing them.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell him. I’m still looking at the bag when it strikes me that it’s a camera bag. “What kind of camera do you use?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I have a Minolta SR-T that I use for work, and a few older cameras that I couldn’t bear to let go.”

“I think my father has a Fotron,” I tell him. I don’t really know much about cameras, but I want to sound informed. He’s a photographer, so clearly cameras are of interest to him.

“That’s a nice camera for home pictures,” he says.

“I wouldn’t know,” I admit. He smiles, reaches for my hand across the table. I keep my hand curved over the table, but move it forward so he can cover mine with his. 

“I have to get going to meet deadline,” he says, his fingers stroking over mine. “But I’d like to get your phone number, if that’s alright.”

“Sure,” I blush. I write it down on his untouched napkin, signing my name below the number with a curlicue at the tail of the ‘a.’ “Just ask who you’re speaking to before asking for me. Jane sometimes withholds calls.” Not that I get many calls, anyway.

Edward smiles and folds the napkin into a neat square before tucking it into his wallet. I try to refuse his money but he pays for his coffee and tips me twenty cents. I thank him as he slides out of the booth, but I feel a little ashamed at taking money from him. It feels like I’m selling him something more than just coffee when I accept the dimes.

I get home after work tingling with the wonder of Edward’s interest in me. For the first time in nearly a year, I’m almost certain that he likes me the way I like him, or at least similarly. I’m abuzz as I play my autoharp for fun, bouncy as I make myself a baked potato and green beans for dinner, loopy while watching  _ The Jackie Gleason Show _ . But the phone only rings for Bree and Jane. 

Alice arrives home as Bree and I are watching  _ I Dream of Jeannie _ . She lies down on the floor so her head rests on my feet, waving me off when I ask how she’s doing. 

On Sunday, I work a full day at Bloomingdale’s. The work phone doesn’t ring for me, and at home I have no messages. I keep a little ember of hope stoked thinking about how Jane sometimes won’t write down messages on our little pad by the phone if she’s in a mood, but she works some nights as a go-go dancer at the Stuyvesant Casino and she’s not in. I pull the phone until it’s straining against the wall cord and push the couch a bit so I can sit on the couch and wait for it to ring while watching  _ The Ed Sullivan Show _ with Alice and Jasper. Alice tells me about how sick she was and how funny she’s been feeling lately. 

Before I moved in with her, she told me about how she’d have periods where everything was hunky-dory and then periods where it felt like her body was home to someone else, where she’d wake up with a bitten tongue and lose track of time throughout the day, but those periods were always when she felt most attuned to the future. Both she and Jasper loved grass and even played with a strange chemical they called “acid,” which they said opened their eyes to the world on the other side of this world. I asked them if they saw my mother there, thinking they were talking about Heaven, but they assured me that it wasn’t the afterlife they were seeing. They’d offered me the stuff but I was terrified to try it. Thankfully, they didn’t tease me too much about being such a square.

I head to bed after  _ Bonanza _ , as do Alice and Jasper. Before I can fall asleep I hear them talking in Alice’s room, then I hear a soft knocking. I’ve heard it enough that I know it’s not anyone knocking at my door; it’s the headboard of her bed knocking against the wall. I feel something stir in my belly and I realize what the feeling is: desire. I want my headboard to knock against the wall. I want Edward to be making me emit the little moans I hear come from Alice. I want to make Edward talk to me in the deep, rough voices I hear coming from Jane’s room when she’s home at night. For only a moment, I’m an animal and all I can do is  _ want _ .

Though I try to suppress it, the want blossoms from my stomach and flows through my body. I touch my stomach over my nightgown and feel my skin alight. I smooth my hand up and down, from my navel to my sternum, the touch ticklish and foreign and good. I press my thighs together without the conscious thought to do so, and am surprised by the jolt I feel between them.

I experiment with squeezing my thighs together and rubbing my stomach, sweeping my hand lower and lower with each pass. I’m touching over my nightgown and underwear, but I can feel the shape of my genitals, feel the lightest impression of the coarse hair that covers me. I rub my hand over my pubis but am frustrated at the lack of sensation. I want without knowing what I want, and in my inability to find it I roll over, cover my head with my pillow, and try to calm down enough to fall asleep.

Monday sees a slow start to work at the pancake house. Both Shirley and Janice are off, but since Mondays are rarely as busy as the weekends, I share the shift only with Kathleen, a tall Irish girl who insists on going by Kate. Kate reminds me of Rosalie, only less ostentatious. We split the restaurant evenly in two, rather than sticking to sections as our manager required, but it works well for the two of us. When new customers come in, whichever of us was nearest to the door seats them on her side and that is that.

I’m refreshing the coffee in the new automatic coffee maker when Kate taps me on the shoulder.

“Cover my side while I go for a fag,” she says.

“You just took a break ten minutes ago,” I remind her. Even though we’re slow and I can easily keep up with both sides of the place, I don’t want to be seen as the young girl who can be bullied into doing more than her share of the work.

“I just seated a man in your section. He gave me a nickel to do it, so I expect you’ll be getting a nice tip when you serve him. You’re welcome,” she says pointedly. I’m confused but I shrug it off.

“Come back as soon as you’re done with your cigarette-- not after you’ve made a phone call or two,” I scold Kate, but grudgingly pick up the tray of food for one of her tables and deliver it as she scurries to the back door.

I’m more irritable than I should be, since I made good tips on Saturday and I’ll pick up my paycheck for Bloomingdale’s on Friday. Money this month is looser than it has been for a bit as the summer starts to roll in to Manhattan. Andy doesn’t pay the actresses in his movies; he makes them for the sake of art, even though he says he’s bored of art, and we all volunteer as artists for the projects. But I wonder if I explain what my goal is with money to him if he’ll maybe see some way to get me on a payroll. I don’t particularly want to be on screen like Rosalie does, but I’d be willing to do something if I could save some more money and figure out a way to get into college. Although as often as I think about college, I have a feeling that the reason I’m a little short today is because I’m disappointed Edward hasn’t called.

I give the counter a quick wipe before grabbing the fresh coffee and heading to my new table. There, sitting in a booth in the front, is Edward.

He’s wearing glasses that frame his face so nicely; they’re a dark beige acetate that’s almost red, a little lighter than his hair. He’s wearing a light green collared short-sleeved shirt with pressed gray pants and has his camera bag with him. I could imagine him modeling for a Beach Boys album, and the thought makes me forget about my schoolgirl crush on Dennis Wilson. When I bought the album  _ Pet Sounds _ last month and made Alice and Jasper listen to it with me on repeat, Alice agreed I could have Dennis if she got Carl, which suited me just fine.

For a moment, I can’t think about how disappointed I’ve been feeling that he hasn’t called. I’m torn between pretending I don’t know him and jumping into his lap and kissing his cheek. I decide on neutrality and pour him a cup of coffee without smiling.

“Good morning, sir,” I say to Edward. “Do you need a minute to make a decision?”

He looks up at me bashfully, and I’m aware of the shift in power for the moment. All weekend long I’d been waiting for him, and now I’m waiting on him. I’m serving him, but I hold all the cards; if I so choose, I could give him burnt sausages, rubbery eggs, half cooked pancakes that ooze batter as soon as you bite them. I could turn him away if I so choose. I’m vulnerable but I’m in control, and my equilibrium feels off balance.

“Bella,” he begins quietly. “I’m so sorry I haven’t called. I was working so I could trade days off with my other photographer and take you out tonight, if you’ll let me.”

I half want to refuse him, but instead I find myself drawn into conversation.

“Why couldn’t you call and ask me out on a proper date? Or let me know that you were working?” I demand. I sound petulant and childish, something Mr. Banner used to scold me for when I begged him to write me notes in return to the ones I left him.

“Would you believe me if I said that I’m just no good at this?” 

“At what?” I snap.

“At courting a pretty girl who makes the best coffee east of Chicago.”

I’m speechless. Dumbly, I ask, “You like my coffee?”

“I like your everything,” he says, looking up at me through his lashes. In an instant I’m wooed and feel myself go all mushy inside. 

“Even this?” I ask, pointing to my birthmark. It’s strange to be so aware of my face without trying to, but with Edward I sort of forget I don’t look normal. I believe him when he says I’m pretty, and I want to hear him tell me again.

“Even that.” 

I hear Kate come back in through the kitchen, and I shake myself out of the bubble I step into when Edward and I are talking. “Can I get you anything?” I ask him again.

“I’d really like to take you out tonight,” he says. 

I press my mouth into a thin line. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a table looking around for me to get the check, so I give him a nod and tell him I’ll be right back.

I come back to his booth after closing out the table and ask him again if I can get him anything to eat. Mr. Newton, my boss, doesn’t like it when we let our friends come in and sit in the booths, spots Mr. Newton calls “prime real estate,” without ordering. I hate to press Edward to order but if he won’t, he’ll have to go.

He smiles and asks for a single pancake with eggs. 

“Thank you for saying you’ll go out with me tonight, Bella,” he tells me. “It’s the best birthday present I could ask for.”

“It’s your birthday?” I ask. He nods. 

“How old are you?” I prod. I know he’s in his twenties; he’s a photographer working for a paper. He has to be old enough to have gone to college or a trade school. 

“Today I turn 25,” he says. 

“So… you voted in ‘64?” I ask. 

“Yeah. For Johnson. I would’ve voted for Kennedy, God rest his soul.” I hang my head as I remember the day of President Kennedy’s assassination. I was home from school for lunch, eating my soup in the kitchen when my mother started screaming from the den that the President was shot, that Kennedy was dead. I walked back to school with my ears ringing. We were sent home early that afternoon; too many girls and teachers were crying. Mr. Banner held me for the first time that day, and it was in his arms that I broke down. 

I excuse myself to put in his order at the window to the kitchen, writing down his request as two pancakes and eggs. While the order is cooking, I count out my tips below the counter and pay for his meal, printing his receipt in my neatest handwriting. When his order is ready, I bring him an extra dish of butter and syrup, as well as the closed receipt, and his face lights up.

“Happy birthday, dear Edward,” I awkwardly sing to him, half out loud and half under my breath. 

“Thank you for the extra pancake,” Edward says, holding my hand lightly as I stand there a little uncomfortably. 

“You’re welcome.”

Edward eats and tells me he’ll come pick me up at the end of my shift. My mood buoyed, I find the rest of the day flies by. Just as he said, Edward is waiting for me outside the entrance on Lexington when I step out at three in the afternoon. He takes my bag that holds my work shoes and my apron from me and lets me sit in the empty seat on the subway, holding the rail above my head. We go back to my apartment so I can change into something cleaner than my work dress, and Edward doesn’t mind when I ask if I could have a shower before we go out. 

I don’t wash my hair, so I’m in and out of the shower in ten minutes. I change into the little blue shift dress Jane gave me and decide to pair it with my saddle shoes back in my room, with socks rather than stockings. New York is getting hotter by the day and I want to be able to feel the breeze if possible. 

Back in my room, Edward is looking through my collection of records that I have stacked by my nightstand. I see my autoharp is out of its case and on my bed; he’s been snooping! I’m caught between embarrassment at how girlish I must seem and joy that he cares enough to look.

“Who are you, Honey West?” I tease as I grab socks from my dresser.

Edward jumps about a foot in the air. 

“I didn’t know you collected records,” he says. 

“I don’t know if you could call me a collector yet.”

“You’re on your way.”

“Thank you,” I smile. “Do you play music, too?” I ask, nodding at my Chromaharp. 

Edward smiles his little half smile and shrugs. “My mother was a piano teacher back in Chicago, so I can read music and plink out some songs, but I haven’t touched a piano since I came to New York.”

Back on the street, Edward takes my hand and holds it tight.

“So, birthday boy,” I say, swinging our joined hands. “Where are we going? How are we celebrating you?” 

Edward smiles a full smile, and it’s dazzling. He’s got one tooth, a canine, that’s a little snaggly; it sticks out a bit when he smiles like this, and it’s just about the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. It makes him look like a boy even though he’s very clearly a man.

“I thought we could look at a record store. And maybe visit the Factory tonight.” 

“That’s right-- you’re friends with Andy,” I remember. 

“More of acquaintances,” he says. His thumb is rubbing the back of mine while we’re walking. My knees feel wobbly but I hold steady.

We walk in silence until we find a record store, where Edward tells me I have five minutes to find my five favorite albums. I challenge him to do the same, and we’re off.

I don’t wear a watch, so I’m late to our private little rendezvous in the back of the record shop. I have with me  _ Pet Sounds, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, The Nat King Cole Story,  _ and  _ Sounds of Silence _ . I also sneak in  _ Mr. Soul _ because I love Sam Cooke and listening to him reminds me of my mother. The day he died, it felt like losing my mother all over again.

Edward is leaning against a rack of records all coollike. Tucked under an arm are his favorite five. 

“Who goes first?” Edward asks.

“The birthday boy,” I say, blushing. It’s hard to call him a boy when he’s a grown man. I can’t remember if he said he shares an apartment with anyone, but I’d imagine on the salary of a newspaper photographer he wouldn’t need to.

He holds out the albums to me one by one.

“The Kinks,  _ Kinkdom _ . They do Louie, Louie better than anyone.”

“No, they don’t,” I disagree. “The Kingsmen do it better. They wrote it. And they’re from Portland.”

“They didn’t write it,” Edward insists. “And you’ve been to Maine?”

“What?” I ask. “Portland is in Oregon. I went there for a week back in ‘58. I got a Pendleton jacket before the Beach Boys ever had them.” 

Edward looks at me strangely. I can’t read him for the life of me. But I’m indignant; I know my Seattle music, I’m sure of it.

“It’s been recorded a bunch before the Kinks ever played it, Bella,” Edward explains. “But… I guess the Kingsmen do it fine.” 

I squint my eyes at him in a mock glare. It’s fun to argue music with him. My insides are going up in bubbles and I feel light as air.

“ _ Introducing the Beau Brummels _ . They sound a bit like the Beatles but better.”

“I’ve heard them,” I say confidently. They had a song that played on the radio all the time last year. Edward smiles and flips over the next record.

“ _ Turn! Turn! Turn! Turn! _ By the Byrds is great. They’ve got another LP coming out next month and I have to get it.”

I shrug. I agree but I’m having too much fun playing cool to concede. 

“They did fine on their Dylan cover, but no one compares to the man himself.”

Edward shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, little lady.  _ Animalisms _ by the Animals is incredible. And  _ The Rolling Stones _ . I love everything they’ve done, so I’ve just picked their first album. I couldn’t choose a favorite.”

I nod, then pull out my first record.

“ _ Pet Sounds _ by the Beach Boys is my favorite thing they’ve done. I hear their music out here in New York but on the West Coast it’s about all you hear. They’re so, so good. Dennis Wilson is the greatest drummer alive.”

“Better than Ringo?” Edward asks incredulously. I shrug, smiling.

“Ringo does fine. I just believe in my heart that Dennis is playing from his soul and not because some guy is telling him what to do.”

Edward chuckles. I set  _ Pet Sounds _ down and pull out Joan Baez. 

“I love Joan Baez. Her voice is a breath of heaven. She makes me long for things I didn’t know I wanted. 

“But Bob Dylan,” I say, pulling out his album, “puts to words feelings that felt undefined. I wish I could pick a favorite album. I guess  _ Freewheelin’ _ comes close. Sometimes I just sit and listen to his music and cry.”

Edward frowns. 

“Why listen to stuff that makes you sad?” He asks. 

“Because Dylan makes it safe to be sad. I get to be with someone who gets it when I’m at the lowest. I love Alice and Jasper but they just don’t know what it’s like…” I trail off. I can’t even put into words what Jasper and Alice don’t know. They just don’t get how it is to be me.

Edward nods at that. “Go on,” he urges.

“ _ Sounds of Silence _ by Simon and Garfunkel is a revelation. Back in Seattle, my friend Doris and I used to argue over who got Simon and who got Garfunkel.”

“What does that mean?” Edward asks, and I feel so silly that I flush.

“Um… who would marry Simon or Garfunkel,” I explain. I must be redder than a tomato.

Edward laughs, a full belly laugh. I’m still embarrassed but I laugh with him. 

“Then I cheated. I have  _ The Nat King Cole  _ story and  _ Mr. Soul _ because I love both Nat King Cole and Sam Cooke. I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why are you sorry?” Edward asks. 

“Because I cheated. You said five albums and I picked six.” 

Edward smiles his half smile at me. He touches me on the shoulder and his hand is warm and dry. I feel sweat prick the back of my neck at the excitement his touch gives me.

“It tells me you love music, and that you’re thoughtful enough to think out six albums that you love. Don’t be sorry.”

I smile at him. We lock eyes and share a moment together before returning our records to the proper shelves.

We decide to cool down at a soda fountain, where we each order a fountain Coke. I’ve had fountain drinks before, but Edward has only had bottled Coca Cola and I smile as he tries the fountain Coke for the first time. 

“It’s different!” He exclaims, and we laugh and talk about how small our hometowns feel compared to New York. 

The talk turns to Andy and The Factory. Edward met Andy through an old coworker; he explains to me that he hasn’t always worked in newspapers or photography, that he used to work for a building group. He’s been in New York since 1959; I’d only been in Seattle for a year then, still a very little girl.

“Andy’s been saying he wants me in his next movie, but I just don’t know…” I trail off. 

“I’ve seen you, you know,” he says, rooting his straw around the bottom of his cup for the last of his drink. “In the movies. You were in  _ Kitchen _ and  _ Withering Heights _ , weren’t you?”

I blush into my cola. 

“Yes,” I admit. 

“So what’s stopping you from doing this one?”

“Andy was on television the other day. He says this movie will get a big release, and…”

“And what?” Edward prompts. He tips my chin up with his forefinger, but I can’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t want my father to see it.”

Edward looks confused. “Can’t you call him and tell him not to watch it?”

“I don’t want my father to know where I am.”

“Why not?” Edward’s voice is gentle, even though he’s asking me hard questions. I want to brush him off, or leave, or something, but I just can’t. I steel myself and look him in the eyes.

“I did a… bad thing back home. I had to leave Seattle and get a new start somewhere new, and I’d read  _ Catcher in the Rye _ and listened to Dylan and thought New York could be the place for me. I love Andy, and I like to help out, but I just don’t want to be seen as more shameful than before to my father.”

Edward nods like he understands. He snaps for the check and generously pays for my soda. We walk together in silence towards the subway to get to the Factory, but at the corner of 3rd Avenue and 9th Street, Edward pulls me into his arms and I melt against him.

“I like you, Bella,” he says, stroking my hair out of my face. When I’m not at work, I like to let my hair hang down my back even though it’s not stylish to have hair so long. He touches it like it’s a new mink, so soft he can’t get enough of the feel. It’s incredible to have someone touching me like this.

“I like you, Edward,” I whisper. 

“You should do what makes you happy. If you want to make a movie with Andy, go do it. Forget your father. If he’s a good father, he’ll love you anyway. You’re so grown up for someone so young, and you should let yourself live a little.”

I’m almost tearing up at this directive. I bury my face in his chest and try to wipe my tears away in his shirt.

“You usin’ me as a handkerchief, girl?” I pull my face away from his chest and see him smiling down at me in that crooked smile. I’m so charmed I can’t do anything but giggle a bit and nod.

“I don’t mind. Use me however you want,” he continues.

“Edward, I should tell you--”

He runs a hand down my back, cutting me off.

“Don’t feel like you have to tell me anything. Everybody’s got secrets, no?”

I agree, but I don’t like the idea of having secrets from him. He can see I’m uneasy, so he loosens his hold on me and puts a hand up.

“How about this: we go see about a party at the Factory, and you can tell Andy what you’re thinking there. And then you and I will see about sharing our stories with one another after a few more dates. Does that sound good?”

I’m flooded with relief. 

“Yes, it does sound good,” I say. “But I have one request for you.”

“It’s my birthday, shouldn’t I be the one making requests?” Edward teases. I put my hand on his chest. I can feel the definition between his muscles, but mostly I feel that he’s skinny. Instinctively I want to feed him up; though my mother didn’t share much with me about her upbringing, she made sure I knew her parents moved to America from Italy, and Italians love to feed people. “It’s in our blood to care for others,” she repeated, and she did take care of others all the way up until the day she left without a trace.

“I request a kiss before we get on the subway,” I say shyly. I’m surprised by my boldness, but it feels good to know what I want and ask for it. 

Edward smiles his full smile and pulls me in tight. He kisses the apples of both of my cheeks before touching his forehead to mine, resting there.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says softly. “And then I’m going to kiss you when we get off the subway, then when we get to the Factory, then in front of everyone so there’s no doubt you’re my girl.”

My heart flutters at his words, but the fluttering is nothing compared to the thunderous tattoo it beats when his lips touch mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named for the song by The Animals. Check it out for some good music that B and E would've boogied to!
> 
> For some clarity, in case you were wondering: Edward was born in June, 1941, making him 25. Bella was born in September, 1948, making her nearly 18.
> 
> The story about Kennedy's assassination comes straight from my own vault. My mom was home for lunch from school when her mother started screaming about the President being dead. And a note on voting: there wasn't a national voting age until 1971. Most states, New York included, set the voting age at 21 until then, although the drinking age in New York in 1966 was 18. Washington State, where Bella is from, has almost always had the drinking age of 21.
> 
> Honey West was a detective show that ended in April, 1966. While the subject matter (a female detective) would have interested Bella more so than Edward, it's a show he would have been familiar with.
> 
> Chromaharp is a maker of autoharps, although it's not a brand associated with modern autoharp players.
> 
> The Kingsmen were super popular on the West Coast, and their cover of Louie, Louie was the version that most artists of the 1960s first heard, although the original writer of the song came from Tacoma, WA. 
> 
> Pendleton is a textile company from Portland, Oregon. They make incredible plaids. The Beach Boys wore Pendleton jackets for a number of televised performances in the 60s. I own a collection of vintage Pendleton skirts and coats-- a good quality vintage Pendleton coat will run you upwards of $60-$120. If you're ever in the market for some vintage Pendleton and you're looking to do your shopping in Seattle, let me know and I'll give you the lowdown on where to get authentic stuff.
> 
> Fountain Cokes were new in the mid-60s! 
> 
> Withering Heights is an unreleased (for general public consumption) arthouse film by Andy Warhol, produced in early 1966. 
> 
> Let me know what you're thinking, and if you have further questions! I'd love to clarify any history if need be.


	5. Summer in the City

**June 27, 1966**

**New York City**

**Edward**

The heat record for New York City in June is set one week to the day after I tell Bella that I dig her. It’s also the first day that we have off together, and I promised her I’d show her Coney Island, a promise I regret considering we’re smashed together in the subway with half of the city, basting ourselves in our own sweat.

This doesn’t stop Bella from holding my hand tightly. I get the feeling she’s worried about getting lost, which is sweet and sad. We’ve been talking on the phone nearly every night, which I’m sure bothers the girls on my party line, but luckily I’ve been able to get through. I even used the phone at the Bronx Press-Review office to call her at her second job at Bloomingdale’s, just to see how she was doing that day. I wanted to. I feel our combined palm sweat gather and drip down my little finger. I shudder.

Bella has her hair pulled back into an updo similar to the one she wears at Bloomingdale’s, and she’s wearing the dress she wore when we went out on my birthday. Her skin is clear and darker than I’d imagine for a girl raised under constant rain and cloud cover, almost olive but not quite. I wonder about her kin. There are people like Paul who’ve lived in America for generations, and then there are people like me, a mix. I want to know about Bella.

When we step off the train at Ocean Parkway, I wish I’d brought my camera. Bella drops my hand to put hers above her eyes, squinting in the sun. She looks edible with loose strands of hair blowing in the breeze from the ocean, her skin dewy with sweat. Compared to girls like Edie and Rosalie, she looks so human, so real. It’s all I can do not to pull her tightly to me. 

Bella pulls a pair of sunglasses out of the bag she packed for the day; I didn’t bring a bag with me, on account of the times I’ve previously gone to Coney Island have been in the company of a guy with a missus back home to pack a bag for him. It’s easy to get bogged down in the idea that I’m on my own out in New York, but at this moment I recognize that even though I’m on my own, I’ve always found someone or other to take care of me. It’s a luxury. I hope Bella’s friends care for her when she needs help, but I’m unsure if that’s the case. Last year, when Ma died, I went home and felt utterly neglected compared to how I felt at work in Manhattan and The Bronx. Even though I wasn’t full time at the paper like I am now, the girls in the office put together a card saying sorry about Ma and someone gave me a meatloaf. It wasn’t anything like Ma cooked, but it was good, and it was comforting.

The pier isn’t totally packed, but it’s early still. Bella wants to get a spot at the beach, but I insist on a ride or two first. It’s a gas to ride the roller coasters; when I first came to Coney Island with some of the guys from my first job in New York, working as a roofer’s helper, I rode the coasters until I threw up, then had a lemonade and got back in line to go again.

“I’m scared, Edward,” Bella complains. “I’ve never been on a rollercoaster before.”

“Did your parents hate you, or something?” I ask as I drag her towards the Cyclone. I stop when I realize Bella’s face has folded in on itself. 

“C’mere,” I say, pulling her in for a hug. We duck below the eave of a stand selling cotton candy to get out of the direct sun. I hold Bella loosely in my arms, tipping her face up to look at me.

“Did I put my foot in my mouth?” I ask. Bella sighs. “No, don’t answer that,” I say before Bella can speak. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t nice to say.”

“My father didn’t trust the carnies that came into town,” Bella says quietly. “He said they’re all crooks and, well, perverts. I never got to go to the fair because he worried the carnies would do something to me.”

“Jeez,” is about all I can say. It’s such a shame she was so sheltered.

“Edward, I don’t know what you want from me,” Bella says in one breath. I don’t know where this is coming from.

“I don’t know anything about… this,” Bella gestures between us. “I’ve never gone steady with anyone before, and I don’t know if that’s what you want, or if you think I’m a prude since I wouldn’t have intercourse with you when you stayed over at my apartment…” She trails off, which is a good thing. I can tell she’s getting flustered, and today is supposed to be fun.

“Bella, how old are you?” I ask as gently as I can.

“Seventeen,” she admits. She’s only a girl. But she’s living on her own, and as much as I know I ought to cut her loose and tell her to jam with a guy her own age, I don’t want to.  _ Pa was 11 years older than Ma, _ I think before I can snap out of it. It’s crazy to be thinking about something as serious as that when I’ve only known the girl for 10 days.

“So this is all new for you,” I say. Bella nods. I run my thumb over her cheek before tracing the edge of her birthmark. She’s not wearing makeup today and her skin is soft as can be.

“I like you,” I tell Bella, dipping my head to kiss her forehead. “A lot. A whole lot. I want to go steady with you, have you be my girl.”

Bella’s eyes are a little wet when she looks me directly in the eye. 

“Really?” She asks, so small. It’s my turn to nod.

“Didn’t I say so last week?” I ask. She looks uneasy, and I want to kiss away any concern she has.

“I couldn’t be sure it was real. Everything was a blur after I told Andy I’d do his movie.” 

I stroke Bella’s hair with the back of my hand. Sometimes my skin can get rough and dry from my time in the darkroom, when I’m running behind on a deadline and I don’t wear gloves to mix developers. Getting close to Bella feels like a slow process; I don’t want to rush her or scare her. Each time we have a misunderstanding I see more and more what Alice meant when she said Bella is a scared bird. I worry that if my words don’t break Bella, my working hands will. I want her to stay soft forever.

“I don’t think you’re a prude, either. We can go as slow as you like. We don’t have to do anything more than get to know each other. I want you to feel ready to make love to me,” I say. She shudders a little in my arms, then winds hers around my torso.

“And we can talk about all that stuff later. Let’s just have fun today.”

Bella smiles and takes my hand, walks with me to the Cyclone. She screams at all the slides and holds my hand so tightly it hurts. When we get off the ride she’s dizzy enough that I suggest we sit down for a moment.

Bella leans forward, her head between her knees. I rub her back and wait for the spell to pass, or for her to upchuck. I’m not squeamish with body stuff; it’s something you get used to when you work in construction with drunks. Everybody bleeds and shits and barfs the same. 

When she feels better, Bella and I get a bag of popcorn to share. We play a few rounds of Knock Down the Cat before deciding it’s rigged, then end up tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths from a distance. Even though I typically spend my time on Coney Island in the arcade, I’m having a blast just playing around with Bella. I want to win her a stuffed bear but I’m glued to her side, and when she starts begging for the beach I give in with a smile.

She has a bag with her that only has one towel in it; rather than a big beach towel, it’s one lifted from her bathroom back in Manhattan. I didn’t think to bring one even though I have my swimsuit on under my pants. This morning I was a little too worked up thinking about seeing Bella in her swimsuit to be planful about our day together.

I shimmy out of my pants and roll my socks into my shoes. I’m too busy getting my own affairs in order to see Bella take off her kit but before I’m totally undressed she’s before me in her killer flowery swimsuit. I want to run my hands up her legs and trace her curves but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. 

“Last one in the water’s a rotten egg!” Bella shouts as soon as my shirt is off, taking off running towards the surf. I sprint after her but let her beat me to the water, catching her around her waist and swinging her in a circle when we’re both in to our knees. 

The brisk water is nice when matched with the hot and wet air, and we both surge forward until the water covers us to Bella’s neck and my chest. My nipples are still exposed to the air. They harden in response to the cold water. Bella giggles at the sight as I turn towards her.

“Careful, or you’ll take my eye out,” she teases. God, but she’s funny. I grin and pull her to my chest.

“Oh yeah?” I growl, pressing her face to me so it’s mashed against my pectorals. “Wanna be the female Popeye?” I do my best impression of Popeye’s laugh, which should be so lame, but Bella is positively cackling.

“Let me go!” She shrieks, but I don't. I get a look at her face as she gets a devious look in her eyes, and then I’m being tickled under the water. I gasp and drop my arms, cringing away from the onslaught. I’m having so much fun that the spike of sadness I feel almost doesn’t throw me off kilter.  _ Martha _ , I think. My sister used to beg me to tickle fight with her since I wouldn’t wrestle her like I did the boys on our street. 

I almost want to cry, but Bella keeps at me with her devilish fingers. Her long nails lightly scrape my flank and I shiver from the different sensation that brings on. It’s good the water is so cold, because my blood is singing in the same spot where I feel the kinetic heat of sexual attraction.

We splash around until I’m shivering. I wish we had a ball or something, like some of the other beachgoers, but it’s just plain fun to be in the water. During a lull in the play, I pull Bella in close to kiss her, and her mouth fits against mine so sweetly.

“Are you getting cold?” I ask. She shakes her head, water flinging. It’s a little unfair that she’s so much smaller than me, since my hair isn’t even completely soaked, but it evens out since I’m the one getting chilly while she’s A-OK.

“The water in the Pacific Ocean is much colder,” she tells me. 

“Don’t you guys all surf over there?”

Bella laughs. “You’re thinking of California, although there are some spots southwest of Seattle where people dare to try.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “Are you a little surfer girl? Should I be calling you Gidget?”

Bella slaps my chest lightly.

“I was never allowed to do anything like that. And I didn’t really want to try. I broke my ankle when I was a little girl and hurt my wrist in junior high. I can be accident prone.”

This surprises me. I’ve never seen anyone move more gracefully than Bella, although when I think hard about it I did see her bump into tables at the restaurant. 

“Do you want to get out of the water?” I ask. I do, but I don’t want to make it my idea. I want her to feel like she’s calling all the shots, because in a lot of ways, she is. I’ve had flings before but I couldn’t call any of the girls true girlfriends. I didn’t want to. Sure, I was sore when one or two of them ended things, but I haven’t met anyone who made me feel the way Bella does. I’m just as unsure as she is about moving forward.

“I can’t,” Bella says. I’m confused, and it clearly shows on my face, because she grins at my lack of understanding. 

“Huh?” 

“I can’t,” Bella repeats. “Until I dunk you.” 

With that, she pounces on me, tugging me under the water. I surface quickly, spluttering. She’s already up, laughing her ass off. 

“You’re on, Swan!” I yell, dunking her under the water too. I don’t want to open my eyes underwater on account of the salt, but I feel Bella’s face close to mine. Her fingers trace my eyes down my cheeks, and I playfully bite one as she’s pressing it at the seam of my lips. I hear her squeal underwater and we both surface. I spit the saltwater out of the side of my mouth, and I’m reminded again of my sister; when we played in Lake Michigan as little kids, I’d spit water in her face until she yelled at me to stop. I don’t want to get salt in Bella’s eyes, and she doesn’t feel at all like my sister anyway.

We bob a bit together in the deeper water, my legs kicking to keep us afloat while hers wrap around my hips. She’s holding onto my shoulders so tightly while I’m half treading water. Though the ocean is moving around us, and the noise of the beach and the pier clatter together into a howling din, the space between us is mellow and quiet. I kiss the bridge of Bella’s nose as I start to hop us closer to the shoreline.

Back on the beach, I wrap Bella up in the towel and rub her arms to warm her up. We’re sloppy happy, sharing smiles and soft chuckles as Bella dries off. When she feels warm enough, she slings the towel around my shoulders and we sit down in the hot sand, heads resting against one another. For a bit we just watch our fellow beachgoers playing in the surf, until we hear voices calling Bella’s name.

I look up, and see Rosalie, Alice and that hippie, Jasper, waving at Bella. They’re headed our way-- Bella’s face is so stunningly precious with excitement I can’t even feel mad about having to share her. Jasper’s already in his swimsuit and Alice is sporting a bikini and a visor. Rosalie is surprisingly modest, in a one piece covered with a sarong, huge sunglasses, and an enormous sunhat. She still looks like a bombshell, tall, tan and blonde, while Alice is tiny and so thin she could be a child. 

With Alice and Rosalie and Bella scantily clad and in immediate proximity, it’s impossible not to compare them all. Alice’s skin is so white she might be anemic. Up close I can see that she’s freckled, albeit sparsely. She’s shaped like a little girl, no real hips or chest to her. Rosalie is incredibly curvy-- the dress she had on before was a straight shift, and it really did nothing for her as far as her shape is concerned. She’s got wide hips, a thick rear end and a rack so stacked you could bounce a quarter off it, paired with a tiny waist. She’s got the heads of all the red-blooded men on the beach turning. Now that she’s next to me I can tell she’s not as tall as I am, but she’s still incredibly tall for a woman. She’s a hot chick, but I’m so not interested. Bella looks lush in her floral one-piece. The low back gives me a clear view of her smooth skin, marked only by a few moles. Her chest isn’t overlarge, and pressed tightly in her suit it creates the most mouth watering cleavage. Once upon a time I thought I might take Edie out on a date, but she was bony enough it felt hard to hold her. I just want to eat Bella up with a spoon. 

“Looks like they let just anyone on the beach,” Rosalie snarks. I scowl at her and wrap an arm around Bella. I want to tell her to back off, but I don’t know if she meant that comment to be about me or about my girl. 

Bella leans into me and I feel both possessive and calm.  _ I love this girl _ , I think, and then I feel a little sick. I’m so dumb with this crush I’m fantasizing about falling in love. I don’t recognize my own thoughts.

“Looks like great minds all think alike,” Bella responds. She’s a beacon of positivity, and I’m better for knowing her.

“If you can’t beat the heat, get to the beach,” Alice agrees. Jasper isn’t talking, but he’s clearly at ease with the girls and with me. We nod at each other-- we’re outnumbered, but it ain’t bad being outnumbered by fine broads in swimwear. 

“Are you getting in the water?” I ask. Alice nods excitedly and Jasper is clearly along for her ride. Rosalie pouts at me.

“This isn’t a bathing suit. It’s a sunning suit. I’m here to work on my tan.”

Bella looks up at me and rolls her eyes out of Rosalie’s view. 

“We just got out of the water,” Bella says. 

“No kidding,” Rosalie says dryly. What is the deal with this girl? She’s just as nasty as Bella’s housemate Jane.

“The water is so nice in the heat,” Bella adds. She doesn’t seem so bothered by Rosalie’s snark, so I try not to let myself get heated either. 

Rosalie has a blue beach bag with her. She’s pawing around in it, looking for something, getting agitated that she can’t find it. Alice and Jasper take off for the water, hand in hand but jogging like they’ve got a train to catch. I’m wondering about proposing lunch when Rosalie complains that she left her cigarettes at home.

“You can get some at a kiosk on the pier,” I tell her. Bella waves me off and pulls out a pack of rolling papers and a little satchel of tobacco.

“I can roll you one,” Bella says. Rosalie lowers her sunglasses and raises an eyebrow at Bella.

“Shall I see if Alice and Jasper brought something?” She asks. Bella blushes and looks up at me.

“You don’t mind pot, do you?” She asks. “I don’t smoke it too often… but we are at the beach, and it might be nice…”

“Oh, you lie, Stella,” Rosalie scolds. “Where’s the girl who smokes a joint every evening after work with Alice and Jasper?”

Bella’s blush deepens. I don’t want her to be upset, and I don’t mind her toking up. I enjoy a good joint whenever I can get one, which hasn’t been too often lately with my work schedule taking up more and more of my time.

“I don’t mind… As long as you share.” 

Bella grins at me and Rosalie digs around in Alice’s woven basket until she finds a little paper box that used to hold matches. She passes it to Bella, who pinches apart the bud and sprinkles it on top of the tobacco already on the rolling paper. I watch as she licks the paper and twists the joint all together with her expert fingers. She hesitates before sparking up.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Alice and Jasper? Since it’s their… you know…” Bella glances around, looking for cops or other goody two-shoes who might have a problem with some public consumption of grass. Rosalie groans and pulls her hat over her face.

“Stella,” she says from behind her hat. “You’ll never make it in this city if you stay concerned about other people.”

“I’ve been here longer than you,” Bella says indignantly. I’m charmed that she’s standing up for herself. Rosalie waves her off, readjusting her hat and sitting back. I half expect her to pull out a bottle of baby oil to really work on her tan, but she doesn’t. She just sits and enjoys the wet heat of the day.

I’m fighting against the urge to get to know Bella’s friends. I feel like if I want to be someone in Bella’s life, I ought to know the other people in it too… but I don’t know how involved I’m supposed to be, let alone how involved Bella wants me to be. I figure it can’t hurt to talk to Rosalie; maybe if the three of us can talk it’ll endear me to her friends and they’ll want her to keep me around. Some of the wives of my coworkers, past and current, don’t think I’m the miserable asshole I think I am, and I’m hoping they’re right.

“So where’re you from, Rosalie?” I ask. She lowers her sunglasses to glare at me.

“It’s Blue.” Bella snorts at this and rolls her eyes at me again. Gosh, I like her.

“So where’re you from,  _ Blue? _ ” I ask pointedly. At this, Rosalie sits up a bit, perky.

“I was born and raised in Santee, South Carolina.” 

“Where’s that?” I’ve never heard of that town before. I can barely imagine anything south of Springfield, and it occurs to me that there’s a whole world inside my own country I’ve never seen. I wonder how much of it, if any, Bella’s experienced.

“It’s on the shores of Lake Marion.”

That doesn’t really clear anything up for me. 

“Okay… Well, what brought you to New York?”

“Who are you, Senator McCarthy?” Rosalie-- Blue, whoever, asks. Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.

“Can a guy ask a question around here without being questioned in return?” I shoot back. 

Rosalie softens a little at this. Bella is shaking with suppressed laughter; it seems like this is commonplace, for Rosalie to be defensive.

“Santee is tiny. Way too small a pond for a fish like me to be able to really swim,” she says, touching her mouth. I’m drawn to her hand; her nails are painted red, and she doesn’t have a ring on like she did when we met at Max’s. I remember that she introduced herself as “Mrs.” that night, and I ask about it.

“So where’s your husband?” I’m not trying to pry, I realize. I’m genuinely curious about this woman with whom Bella spends her time.

“Six feet under some lovely dirt in Santee,” Rosalie says without emotion. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. 

“Thanks.” 

Luckily, the silence that falls doesn’t last long enough to be awkward. Jasper and Alice return from their jaunt in the water, laughing and shaking their wet hair at Rosalie, who shrieks at the spray. Bella offers Jasper the inaugural first puff of the joint and we all take a few hits, letting the high of the grass roll over us like the waves. 

Bella spreads out the towel she brought and I lean back on it. Bella follows me down and lies down on top of me. It’s way too hot to cuddle like this, but I’m a little stoned and a little too into this girl to tell her to give me space. I drape my arms around her and she buries her face in my neck, gently nosing at my jawline and dropping feather-light kisses here and there. It’s working for me. I’m getting more than a little riled up when she starts giggling and doesn’t stop.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, smiling because her attempts to stop laughing result in her snorting, and that’s just too cute. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” she whispers. I glance over at where Jasper and Alice are spread out and see that they’re mellow stoned, as is Rosalie. I suggest that we pack up and get a bite to eat and Bella agrees, giggling all the while. 

We stumble back to the pier and I send Bella off to get a seat at a bench while I wait on line for Nathan’s hot dogs. I buy us a bottle of Coke to split. I join in on Bella’s laughing jig while we eat, which makes a huge mess-- it’s hard to eat while snickering, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. Bella tells me I have mustard on the side of my mouth, and instead of wiping it off, I surreptitiously dip my finger in the mustard on my napkin, using my mustardy finger to touch other spots near my mouth while asking if I’m getting it off. Bella nearly dies laughing, and it’s maybe the best thing I’ve heard in my life.

Bella insists on buying us a bag of peanuts to eat when we get back to the city, and we catch the train early enough in the afternoon to both get seats. She reaches into her beach bag and pulls out a little baggie of candy that she either brought along or bought on the sly. She offers me a piece of black licorice from it, but I decline. I like ice cream and milkshakes but I don’t have too much of a sweet tooth. Bella pops a black coin in her mouth and tells me she can’t get enough of the stuff.

“Usually I just use Sen-Sens to get my fix but today I’m being bad,” she whispers in my ear, her breath all hot and wet and sweet. 

We get off the Q train at 14th and Union and transfer to the L. We ride to First Avenue and walk the ten minutes back to my place-- I got my air conditioning unit working this past week. Bella doesn’t have a unit in her bedroom, so she’s been sleeping in the main room of her place. I offered her my bedroom when she complained about the heat on our ride home, and she just about melted.

We walk up the eleven flights of stairs to my 12th floor abode. Bella marvels at the space, running her fingers along the walls, remarking how big it is. It is a generous space for the type of housing in this area, but coming from my house in Chicago it’s nothing too special. I didn’t realize until I moved to New York what tight quarters some people lived in, and I guess I’m realizing with Bella that not everyone has the type of house a lawyer’s salary can buy. 

“In Tukwila we had a small house but in Seattle we lived in a duplex,” Bella says out of nowhere.

“Who all is ‘we?’” I ask, taking the bag from her shoulder.

“Me and my mother and father.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“None living. My mother had a child before me who died at birth, and then in ’62 she had a baby that was born dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. That’s awful. Bella shrugs, rubs a hand over her sunned shoulder.

“It’s okay.”

We stand in silence for a minute.

“What about you?” She asks me. “Do you have brothers?”

“No,” I say. I normally would leave it at that, but I feel the need to tell her more about me, to be real. “I had a younger sister though. She died eight years ago.”

“That’s horrible, Edward,” Bella says, her voice full of emotion. I don’t realize that I have my shoulders hunched up until Bella pulls me down to sit on the floor and rubs at them. 

I don’t know what to do with my body. I’m all awkward and gangly and I feel like a weird teenager again, but I know I’m a man now. I don’t want to cry, but I also don’t want to  _ not _ cry. My feelings are all tangled up together like string and all I can do is look at Bella and hope she understands.

She wraps her arms around me and for once she’s holding me. She lets me rest my head on her shoulder and directs my face to her neck. I keep my eyes open and I can see her birthmark moving along with her chest as she breathes; it’s like a living thing moving around on her, part of her but separate. My breath against her neck is moist, creating a steamy little sanctuary where I can feel the grief of the deaths of my sister and my mother and still be safe.

“My mother died last year,” I say, apropos of nothing. Bella just squeezes me tighter to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Thankfully she doesn’t repeat it;  _ I’m so sorry _ is like a mantra for most people when they hear that I’m just a kid with no Ma. 

We sit like that for a bit, and it’s all okay. Everything in this moment is okay, and when I sit back I can just look at Bella and see her as a person, not as this unattainable object of my affection. She’s beautiful, but her beauty is simple. Her birthmark is strange and wonderful, a thing that masks how brilliant her dark eyes are. Her face is oval but her jaw isn’t square or bulky, and her lips are thin but well defined. Looking at her now, I see her as I suspect she sees herself: just a girl with a birthmark. But I can see there’s also much more.

“I have something to show you,” I tell Bella. I don’t even know what it is I’m going to show her, but I get up and immediately see the picture on the shelves I’ve been meaning to stack my records on.  _ Her _ picture. I grab it and hold it out to her.

Bella’s breathing gets shallow. “That’s me,” she says.

I nod. “I found this picture at my friend Paul’s place the night we met,” I tell her. 

Bella just looks at the picture, tracing over her face in the gloss. I let her look at it and come to her own conclusions. I have no idea what to make of her expression. 

“Alice would have something meaningful to say about this,” she says eventually.

“Do you?” I ask. I’m nervous that she thinks I’m creepy. I shouldn’t have taken the picture from Paul’s apartment, but I just couldn’t help myself…

“No,” she whispers, and then her lips are on mine.

Bella kisses like she was born and bred to do it. Her mouth is wicked and hot and tastes like licorice. Usually I don’t like the funk of anise, but on her breath it’s compelling. Bella lets me pull her onto my lap and then her hands are all over me, rubbing my shoulders, trailing up and down my back, petting my jaw. I tangle one hand in her hair and try to go slow with the other, but Bella grabs it and plants it firmly against her waist. I squeeze and stroke her waist and pant against her mouth as she moves on top of me, squirming like she’s as turned on as I am. 

Suddenly she breaks away from me, holding my face in her hands.

“I’m not a virgin,” she says, all breathless.

“Me neither,” I say, dipping my head to nip at her throat. She moans above me and the sound goes straight to my cock. Her knees bracket my hips but she’s sitting back on her heels, which makes our positioning awkward, me leaning forward so I can lick the salt and sweat off her neck.

“Edward, I can’t,” Bella says, still breathless. I’m tempted to plead with her, to insist that she can… but I can’t do it. I sit back, feeling rejected.

Somehow Bella can tell I’m upset as I’m rubbing my chest, catching my breath. She moves off me and rests her head in the space between my neck and shoulder. I want to push her away like she did me, but I let her get all snuggly and put an arm around her shoulder like it’s second nature.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“What are you apologizing for?” I ask. I want to add  _ silly girl _ to the end, but I’m still feeling hurt. I thought she liked me.

“I just… there’s stuff you should know about me,” Bella says. “But I’m not quite ready to tell you yet. I’m sorry,” she insists again.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” I tell her. I want to know what her hang ups are but I have to believe that she’ll tell me in her own time.

We sit quietly together for some time. I’m looking at the picture Bella dropped when she jumped me, thinking about how crazy it is that I’m holding the girl in the photograph when an idea strikes.

“Bella,” I begin gently, brushing her hair off her shoulder. “Can I take your picture?”

She moves away from me, looks me directly in the face.

“Right now?”

“Sure,” I shrug. Bella looks at me contemplatively. 

“Okay,” she says. I scramble to grab my camera in my bedroom. I’m sitting on my bed, loading film and thinking about which lens to use when Bella taps on my bedroom door and comes in.

“In here?” She asks. I look around at my room; it’s more clean than my living room, everything neat and organized. I’d love to pose her, maybe on the bed, but I don’t know how comfortable she is with that. But she did suggest my bedroom, so I nod.

“If that’s okay with you. I, uh, don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Bella takes my hand from where it’s winding the film into the camera. She looks me in my eyes and although I usually am the first to break a gaze, I don’t.

“I feel comfortable with you,” she says gingerly. “I just… don’t feel so comfortable myself. Does that make sense?” 

_ Not really.  _ But I try to see it from her perspective.

“Um…” I don’t know how to answer.

“I left home because my mother left us,” Bella says. “Well, that’s only part of it. My mother left my father and me in January, ’63. I don’t know where she is, if she’s alive or… not. I was so lost in Seattle, and I thought I had someone to help me, someone who loved me, but I was wrong. I was very, very wrong. And I made a bad choice and I just had to leave.”

I’m trying to follow what she’s saying, to piece together what it is she’s trying to tell me, but the gaps in the story are pretty huge. She’s vague in her wording. I think I get the gist of it all, or at least I can assume: she slept with someone, maybe got pregnant and had an abortion, and she’s scared now? 

I can see that she’s upset and I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how to do that. 

“Bella,” I begin. “I don’t know what I can do to make it better for you.”

She hangs her head. I wonder if she feels rejected by me, like I felt when she pushed me away while we were kissing.

“But I want to make things better for you. I think it’s pretty clear I’m into you,” I say, tipping her head up. She’s looking at me with wet eyes, and I want to kiss her tears away.

“You’re the kind of girl a guy like me could fall in love with,” I say. 

Bella nods at this, but the tears in her eyes spill over and fall. 

“You can take my picture now,” she says, and then she stands up and pulls off her dress.

I raise my Minolta to look through the viewfinder and click the shutter before I realize the lens cap is still on. I unscrew it, fiddling with the aperture for the lighting in my room, and when I look up, Bella has rolled her swimsuit down to her waist. 

She’s still crying a bit, her face twisted while she thinks about what she’s left behind in Seattle. I feel like such a creep, witnessing this private moment, but it’s something she wants me to see. She’s emotionally naked in front of me, hair messy, breasts exposed, cheeks red with sun and sadness. Her birthmark is clear as I raise the camera to take the picture.

I only snap three photos of Bella, but she poses a bit with each one. The girl is a natural in front of the camera, and without developing the pictures I know they’ll turn out perfect. I set the camera down and pull Bella into my arms on the bed, where she quietly falls apart. 

I hold her, letting her cry into my shirt for a long time. When her crying softens to hiccupping breaths, I stand up and grab her an undershirt and a pair of underpants so she doesn’t have to sit in her swimsuit anymore. I step out of the room to let her change in privacy. I strip down in the bathroom and put on a pair of boxers, leaving my shirt off. It’s hot enough even with the air conditioning that I’m not being too forward about nakedness.

I wait for Bella in the living room, where I put on the Roger Miller 45 “King of the Road.” I’m snapping along to the snaps in the song when I hear Bella’s voice singing along with the words.

“I’m a man of means, by no means…” Bella sings. Her voice is soft but so clear. I turn to face her.

“King of the road!” I join in. Bella grins at me and I smile back. She takes my hand and we dance to the B-side. I let Bella put on the Simon and Garfunkel album I bought after she told me how much she loved it. We hold each other and sway to slow songs, and soon we’re both tuckered out from the fun and heat and emotion of the day. Bella pulls me to the bedroom, where she wraps my arm around her waist. I curl around her like a spoon and fall asleep drinking in the ways we’re so similar and so different, hoping that she’ll open up to me, praying she’ll still want me when I open my heart up to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, next chapter we'll be back at The Factory!
> 
> I’m a stickler for historical accuracy, but this chapter’s title song, “Summer in the City” by the Lovin’ Spoonful, came out one week after this chapter takes place, on July 4th, 1966. That said, it’s perfect for the chapter. I urge you to listen to it; The Lovin’ Spoonful might be the best band out of the 1960s from the United States. Their song “Daydream” inspired Paul McCartney to write “Good Day Sunshine.” “Summer in the City,” however, was inspired by The Supremes “Baby Love,” which is also an incredible song.
> 
> The Coney Island Cyclone is an 85 foot wooden roller coaster. It’s been up and running since 1927.
> 
> “Carnies” is a term for carnival workers. Generally, when traveling carnivals and circuses were big in the United States, the men who mounted and dismantled the rides were felons. It’s not unreasonable for Bella’s father to be nervous about Bella attending carnivals or fairs, but super protective parenting wasn’t so much the norm in the 1960s.
> 
> The fair Bella is talking about is called the Washington State Fair, held in the dumpy town of Puyallup (pronounced “pyou-wall-up”). It’s 35 miles southeast of Seattle, about an hour’s drive on a good day, but on a fair day it’s closer to 2.5-3 hours. In the 1960s, the fair was called the Western Washington State Fair, but was colloquially referred to as “the Puyallup Fair.” This is the term I grew up with, and I still remember the song “Do the Puyallup” from the radio commercials for it. It got rebranded as the WA State Fair a few years ago, but (just like I’ll never call Safeco Field by the new name “T-Mobile Park”) I’ll always think of it as “the Puyallup.”
> 
> Knock Down the Cat was a shooter game. Standard amusement park fare.
> 
> “Gidget” is in reference to a series of novels about a young girl surfer. The first was published in 1957, with a movie starring Sandra Dee as Gidget coming out in 1959. Two sequels were made in 1961 and 1963, each with different actresses. And there is somewhat of a surfing culture in Washington. I don’t know what the surf is like on First Beach, where they surf in Twilight, but further south in Ocean Shores there’s some waves to be caught. If you want good West Coast surfing, I suggest Ventura, California, where there’s less tourism than Santa Barbara, even if the water is pretty cold.
> 
> Finally, I remember to talk about Rosalie’s dress from the first chapter! It’s Yves Saint-Laurent’s Mondrian dress. YSL’s Mondrian collection debuted in 1965, and was on the cover of Vogue. Rosalie wears it a year after its release, which is technically gauche, but who cares? It’s haute couture!
> 
> In 1960, Santee, SC had a population of about 100. It’s inland South Carolina, on the Western banks of Lake Marion. The largest nearest city is Columbia, and that’s still more than 66 miles away. It’s not unreasonable for no one to really know anything about Santee… and that’s just how Rosalie likes it.
> 
> On the East Coast, it’s common to say you’re waiting “on” line rather than the West Coast “in” line. When I lived in France, I got so used to saying I was in the “queue” that now I sound pretentious to most people who happen to hear me talking about waiting to check out. Lol.
> 
> Sen-Sens were a licorice flavored “breath perfume.” They were sold in little cardboard boxes, like matchboxes. They were basically licorice flavored Altoids, which were also around in the 60s.
> 
> Nathan’s hot dogs aren’t exclusive to Coney Island anymore, but they do come from Brooklyn!
> 
> The birthmark Bella has is called a port wine stain. I don’t have one, but I had a “stork bite” when I was born— a red birthmark that fades and disappears after infancy. These are more common on the back of the head, which is where I had mine, whereas a port wine stain can occur anywhere. A baby I nannied had the birthmark Bella has, and she was the cutest baby alive. Her parents called her “Panda” for the mark around her eye.
> 
> A 45 is a record containing a released single. Before CDs, before casettes, records were either 45s (shorter than full albums) or LPs (full albums). “45” refers to the rate per minute the song at which the record spins— 45 complete turns per minute around the record needle. 45s were about 7 inches whereas LPs were 10-12 inches.
> 
> “King of the Road” by Roger Miller won 5 or 6 Grammy awards! Give it a listen.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think!


	6. Good Lovin'

**July 4, 1966**

**New York City**

**Bella**

July so far has been a total drag with two days in a row of temperatures over 100. I’m grateful to have spent those days sleeping at Edward’s, and I’m a little surprised at just how well he fits into my life. He’s been such a gentleman about my sensitivities, never pressuring me to touch him. His hands haven’t strayed from where I place them, and I’m comfortable, although I’m beginning to want more than what I’ve got.

Bloomingdale’s reduced my hours for the summer the same day Jessica told me she’s in the family way. I try not to be self-sacrificing, but I negotiated with Mr. Yorkie, the manager of the dining service, to give my hours to Jessica. He told me I could come see him about a job in the winter if I needed one, and with that, I was singly employed. Mr. Newton agreed to leave me in charge of mornings when he takes days off, and he thinks he’ll be able to give me some more shifts. If he can’t, I’ll look into working at a diner in Midtown, near Madison Avenue, maybe. 

Although I’m unsure about money, I feel lighter without my job at Bloomingdale’s. It paid better per hour than the pancake house, and I met both Alice and Rosalie there, but I like the freedom of the pancake house. It’s my own domain, and I’m confident in my service. 

If I still lived in Seattle, I’d spend the Independence Day holiday at Alki Beach with my friends, but I don’t. I’m glad to live in New York today, doubly glad to have a shift at the pancake house where I’ve earned double my hourly wage and incredible tips. If I had a bank account, I’d be skipping to it, but I don’t, and the banks are closed today anyway. Mr. Newton lets me exchange my coins for dollar bills out of our master till and I am thrilled to walk away with thirty five dollars in tips just from a five hour shift. 

Rosalie is waiting for me as I exit the pancake house, looking so cool in her paisley patterned blouse. She’s dyed her hair again, a shade of blonde so pale it’s nearly white. It’s lighter than the tan of her skin, which is strange, but it looks right on her. She lights me a cigarette which I graciously accept as we walk down the stairs to the subway.

I can hardly believe Rosalie would venture to East Harlem to meet me after work, but she insisted on doing my hair for the party Andy’s hosting at Cafe Au Go Go tonight. Edward’s promised to meet us there; he likely would have picked me up from work but he’s been tardy a little too often at the paper to take any new risks. I don’t have air conditioning in my bedroom, and Jane makes sleeping on the sofa an absolute misery, so it’s very lucky to have Edward who has air conditioning. I know I’m lucky to have Edward for more reasons than his cool apartment, but the heat and the need for cool air has made it easier to resist the temptation I feel to strip down to nothing and demand he take me where I lay.

Rosalie typically sneers at the subway, preferring to take cabs, but I can’t abide by the cost. She agreed to the subway only after I told her about letting go of my position at Bloomingdale’s; although she can be pushy, she’s sensitive to women in predicaments. I so often wonder how a woman as tenacious as Rosalie ends up in New York City, widowed and without steady work. When I’ve asked how she can afford the Hotel Chelsea as her place of residence, she’s always smiled ambiguously and said, “I make do.”

We receive a warm welcome from Oscar, the doorman at the Hotel Chelsea. Rosalie smiles politely at him but never really engages in conversation with him, nor does she with the maids in the hotel. I was always taught to be gracious with everyone I encounter; I assume my mother instilled this curiosity about others in me to bother my policeman father, since he preferred me to stick to his side and not encourage any socialization with the public at all. 

“You don’t talk to Oscar,” I comment as we wait for the elevator.

Rosalie looks down her nose at me. She’s almost as tall as Edward, who is exceptionally tall himself. She slowly looks away, telling me with her gaze that this topic of conversation is a bore.

“Should I?” She asks, but there’s no question in her voice. She’s ending our chat before it begins.

“Well, I don’t know…” 

The elevator doors open and Rosalie steps inside gracefully. I scurry behind her like a squirrel compared to her confident stallion walk. When the doors shut and we’ve pushed the button for her floor, Rosalie turns to face me.

“It’s best not to talk about things that one doesn’t know about,” she explains, like she’s talking to a kindergartener. I’m shamed and humbled at the same time, and I study my feet until the door slides open on her floor.

Rosalie’s room is glamorous in its accommodations. Her ashtray is made of crystal and clean and her bed is neatly made. Air conditioning makes the room a cool oasis from the humidity of the city, and a bouquet of freesias in a crystal vase makes me forget about the-- shall we say-- aroma of New York City. I’d thought Tukwila was malodorous with its paper and steam plants, and the waterfront of Seattle sometimes reeked of fish and low tide, but New York City was its own library of odors. I don’t like many of them, but I prefer the stink of garbage to the woozy funk of sewage. The heat makes everything mingle together unpleasantly, and while the beach of Coney Island was a bit of a reprieve, it still had a scent to it that made my nostrils tingle.

Though she postures like she’s the queen of confidence, Rosalie closes the curtains and makes me face the wall as she strips out of her blouse and pants and into her house dress. Although Alice, Bree, and Jane prefer to wear their own house dresses sans brassieres, Rosalie keeps hers on. She invites me to sit on her bed while she rolls her hair. We listen to the radio while she smokes and expertly bundles her hair into large rollers.

“California Dreamin” gets Rosalie in the mood, and she shimmies a little in her chair at the mock-vanity in her room. She turns to look at me as the song transitions into “Strangers in the Night” by Frank Sinatra. The detriments of working in service is listening to the radio nonstop; I feel like all I’ve heard this week is “Strangers in the Night.” I think I could sing that song in my sleep.

“Stella, have you ever been to California?” Rosalie asks in her strange drawl. She’s said before that she wants a transatlantic accent like First Lady Jaqueline Kennedy. Secretly, I do too, but I’m too afraid of sounding foolish to ever give it a try. If anyone is capable of imitating Jaqueline Kennedy’s style, though, it’s Rosalie. There is something very upper class about her.

“Only to San Francisco for a week. We drove down the coast and visited the Bay.”

“Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco treat!” Rosalie sings.

“I don’t remember having heard those commercials when we went back in 1960… I don’t think I’ve ever eaten Rice-a-Roni,” I say. Rosalie’s eyes bug out of her head.

“Stella, you’re kidding! You have to try it! I used to make it all the time for--” Rosalie cuts herself off. She’s always been mum about her life before New York City, as have I, but I sometimes long for a closer bond with her. Alice is too close to my own age for me to see her as anything more than an older sister, but Rosalie… I don’t know how old she is, but there’s something about her that makes me think she’s lived more than Alice or Jasper, even if her age is close to mine. Pettily enough, something about the wrinkles near her eyes tells me that she’s older than she wants me to believe.

Rosalie shakes off her slip of the tongue and stands up for me to get in the chair. She brushes my hair firmly but without malice, working through the snarls and the set curl from the pins. I don’t love pinning my hair up for work, and hair as long as mine isn’t chic in New York, but my mother never cut her hair and I don’t want to cut mine either. Mother kept her hair in braids that she pinned up sort of like a Swedish milkmaid; the hairstyle wasn’t too strange in Seattle, what with the Nordic population in Ballard and Phinney Ridge, but her coloring excluded her from Nordic heritage. Mother had olive skin, blue eyes and straight brown hair that nearly matched the color of her skin when it lightened in the sun during summer. She was beautiful in an exotic way, and for years I despaired over taking more after my father in countenance; it seems the only physical attribute I share with my mother is the undertone of her skin, as my hair and eyes are dark like my father.

Once my hair is free from tangles, Rosalie frowns and meets my eyes in the mirror.

“Won’t you let me cut this, Stella?” She pouts. I shake my head. 

“I like it long,” I say. Her hair is long but she puts effort into how she styles it. I like to let my mane hang down my back when I’m not at work. 

“Doesn’t it get in the way?” She asks as she starts to back comb my hair at the roots. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say. I’ve never had my hair ratted before; Father wouldn’t hear of it when I begged him to let me go to the salon with Doris. He said I’d look like a hussy. It’s both thrilling and scary to be going against him with this hair, although thinking about him makes me miss him. I can’t remember when I last called the police station in Seattle to leave him a message, and I wonder if I should today.

“When you’re doing the Hanky Panky,” Rosalie says. I blush deep red and duck my head to avoid her gaze, only to have my head yanked back up by Rosalie’s grip and comb.

“I don’t do that,” I say, trying to be glib. I can tell by Rosalie’s smirk that I do not succeed.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Rosalie sings. 

“Your nose is longer than a telephone wire,” I sing back. Rosalie grins at me through the mirror.

“Spill, chick,” she says, spraying the roots she’s just ratted with Aqua Net. The hair that isn’t teased flops over my face while about three inches of teased hair stands straight up. I look very silly, and I can’t really believe that I’m talking sex with a sexpot like Rosalie while I look like a mess.

“About Edward?” I ask as Rosalie sections some of my hair apart. 

“Obviously,” Rosalie says. She’s chewing her lip a bit like she does when she wants a cigarette; I hope for my sake that she doesn’t light up while she’s spraying hairspray, or else I’ll be forced into one of those new pixie cuts that Alice favors. 

“There’s nothing to tell,” I admit. “We haven’t… you know.”

Rosalie stops messing with my hair and levels me with a stare. 

“And why not?” She asks. “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.”

I blush even harder.

“I’m not,” I whisper.

“Then you’re not a prude,” she reasons, teasing more hair. “So why haven’t you?”

I’m at a loss for words. Rosalie sees me trying and failing to talk, opening and shutting my mouth like I’m a fish. I feel like such a fool because if there was anyone to get advice about intimacy from, it  _ should _ be Rosalie since she was married once. She sighs and drops her hands to my shoulders.

“If you tell me about it, you might have an easier go of things when it’s time to suck it up and do it,” she says. Her words are ambiguous but I think I understand what she’s saying.

“But if not…” She continues. “Then I’ll give you this advice: close your eyes, spread your legs, and think of Sean Connery. And swab your pussy beforehand with Vaseline if you want to avoid chafing.”

I’m speechless for a moment. It’s hard to process the vulgarity of her words with the helpful sentiment she intends. I want to ask for clarification about Vaseline but I’d rather spare myself the mortification, so I summon my courage and respond.

“He was my teacher, and I thought he loved me. He said we had to, and I did, and it was all a big mess because look where I am now,” I bemoan. Rosalie squeezes my shoulders and brushes the nest of hair out of my face and off my forehead.

“Look where you are now,” she says, repeating my words. She sweeps her arm across her stylish bedroom, towards the window. I can see Manhattan through the pane, and everything is wonderful and huge and terrible and so achingly familiar and foreign all at once. I am hit by a wave of homesickness so hard it feels like I’ve been whacked in the gut. My chest is tight and my mouth tastes metallic and bad and I have the hollow feeling I get in my head when I’m about to cry. I don’t want to cry in front of Rosalie. We’re not that kind of friends.

I use the pretense of looking at where I am to avoid eye contact. I stare out the window, hard, at a sign for a little diner across the street. 

“You’re in the greatest city in the world,” Rosalie tells me. “Who cares if you bumped uglies with a teacher to get here? You and me, we’re in the center of the universe.”

Rosalie is crouched down so she can talk directly into my ear. I close my eyes against the warmth of her breath on my skin and let her words wash over me. For a second it feels like she’s absolving me of my guilt, but the feeling of overwhelming shame of ruining my own life floods me when she stands back up. 

“Thank you,” I say softly, as Rosalie takes up her comb and my hair again.

“It’s no big deal, Stella,” she says. She pulls the hair she pushed over my face back and starts to fashion a sort of mound of hair, smoothing the top layer of hair as she goes. Soon it looks like I almost have a headband made from hair surrounding the rounded hill of hair, with a bit of hair hanging down my back. I recognize this style as one I read about in a magazine: a beehive! 

“Rosalie! This is far out!” I cry. The slang sounds weird coming from a dork like me but I can’t help myself. 

“It’s Blue, Stella,” she reminds me. I roll my eyes at her and she pats my cheek, lightly scratching my birthmark with her long nails. Her fingernails, I’ve just noticed, are painted a light blue.

Rosalie lets me wear one of her checkered dresses. She paints my eyelids white and lines the crease with a thick black line; I look absolutely mod. I’m only missing tall boots but my saddle shoes will have to do. Rosalie dresses down for tonight in a red paisley button down top with bell sleeves, a tight pair of hot pants made of blue denim with fringe at the hem, and heeled dancing boots. Her lips are painted a glossy red and she has her shirt mostly unbuttoned, tied at the waist. With her heels on, Rosalie stands nearly a foot taller than me. On me, the checkered dress isn’t the mini dress it’s intended to be. I look frumpy next to her, especially so coupled with my heavy-looking messenger bag carrying my work dress, but I remember her words and try to focus on being glad to be in New York.

Rosalie has the doorman hail us a cab to Cafe Au Go Go. Rosalie offers to pay but I insist I chip in, what with my tips from the day. The ride only takes us five minutes, but Alice acts as if we’re late by hours when we pull up in front of 152 Bleecker Street. She kisses us on both cheeks and pulls out a little tin case with her initials engraved on it. Alice motions for us to crowd closer to her before she opens the case.

Inside the case is a small pile of white powder. My eyes widen at the drugs and I feel the sticky panic of rule breaking fill my chest like it always did when I snuck a cigarette before I left home. I wasn’t strictly a goody two-shoes; in fact, I’d go so far as to say that I was more of a rule breaker in Seattle than I am here. I wonder why that is, considering the consequences for breaking rules don’t exist when I have no parental oversight and therefore no real rules.  _ There’s the law _ , the inner daughter of a policeman reminds me. I like grass and indulge in it semi frequently, but I don’t even know what this powder is and I’m afraid to find out.

“Oooh, yes please,” Rosalie says. She uses the nail of her smallest finger to scoop a little heap of the powder up. She brings it to her nose and inhales deeply, making a sucking sound as she does. Alice repeats the gestures but chokes a little on her inhale, turning her head to cough a bit. Alice and Rosalie turn to look at me expectantly, but I shake my head.

“I-- I--” I don’t know how to tell them I don’t want to try what they’re doing, but Rosalie just rolls her eyes. 

“More for us, then,” she says dismissively, but then we hear the music start and Rosalie sweeps us into the club.

Jasper is waiting for us at a table, smoking a cigarette. He holds it at the corner of his mouth as he pecks Alice on the lips, pulling her in front of him to sway to the music. Alice rests her head on Jasper’s chest as they move to the house band playing a cover of “Ain’t That Loving You.” Rosalie and I watch them move together, and I see Rosalie frowning at them.

“I want that!” She says petulantly. “Even though I swore off all men for good. I want that.”

I understand the feeling. 

We get drinks from the bar-- a Manhattan for Rosalie and a sloe gin fizz for me, because I’m feeling like I might as well live a little. As we get back to the table where we left Alice and Jasper we spot Andy and some friends. I want to stay at the table and wait for Edward, but Rosalie grabs my arm and pulls me to join the group. With Andy is Ultra Violet, whose real name is Isabelle, Ondine, Taylor, Nico, Eric, and Lou; I don’t know everyone, but I know who they are from pictures and stories about Andy’s friends. 

I recognize Nico from the photographs Billy Name taped up in the Factory, advertisements in fashion magazines from Europe. She’s blonde and beautiful and exotic in a European way, slender and distracted. Ondine is wrapped around her, dancing sensually to the music. Everyone in the group feels larger than life, whereas I feel like I’m shrinking; it’s like Andy and his friends are a room with a ceiling and I’m a mouse in the corner. 

Alice and Jasper mosey their way over to us. They might as well be sharing a body for how tightly wound together they’re standing, Alice’s heels on Jasper’s toes. For a reformed cowboy, Jasper looks almost as if he’s stepped out of a photograph from a LIFE Magazine article about California counterculture with his pants that flare at the ankle and fringed shirt. Alice is wearing what can only be described as a costume, which is fitting considering she’s worked in costuming on Broadway on and off since I moved in. Her dress is a deep purple and hardly covers her bottom; it looks almost like a smock but it shows more skin. Next to Rosalie, who looks as ostentatious as she does, I feel ever more the school marm I think I am. Even though Andy is stroking my arm and shouting that he’s glad to see me, I can’t believe I’ve been asked to come along tonight.

When Alice catches my eye, I mime that I’m going to go roll a cigarette. The club is swelteringly hot and I need air; not necessarily from the crowd but from the strange feeling of displacement and non attachment that I’m experiencing. I step out of the club to have a quiet moment on the street, but there is no quietude to be found. With the noise pollution from Cafe Au Go Go as well as The Bitter End, my thoughts clatter around in my head, blending with the cacophony of summer in Greenwich Village. 

I smoke my cigarette outside, and the heat of the cigarette combined with the general heat of the air does nothing to cool me down. I feel keyed up, overly alert even though I didn’t try any of the amphetamines Rosalie offered. I’m fishing in my dress pocket for my packet of Sen-Sens when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Edward!” I’m not expecting him just yet-- he said he had a late deadline and wouldn’t meet us until close to midnight, but he’s before me in a rumpled button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. I fling myself into his arms without thinking and he spins me around. I love that within moments of seeing him I feel comforted. I want to bury myself in his damp shirt and never leave. He smells like smoke and chemicals and sweat; there’s a heady tang to him that makes my mouth feel juicy around the candy I’m sucking on.

“You look killer,” he says, smiling his crooked smile. I get caught up in the fold of his cheek, tied up in his one tooth that sticks out just a little.  _ I want to lick that tooth _ , I think, and the idea is so ridiculous I have to laugh.

“Come, let’s dance,” I say, and tug him into the club.

We find Andy’s group easily among the crowd; it’s hard to miss Andy in a group, being tall and blond with thick glasses. He’s almost like a male Rosalie, except he’s skinny while she’s bodacious. 

“Where is Rosalie?” I shout at Taylor. Although I spot Alice and Jasper, I don’t see her with the group. Come to think of it, I don’t see Ondine either, which is strange. I’d expect him to be all over Edward or Jasper, flirting until he’s blue in the face. 

“You’ll see,” Taylor says with a wink, then the lights in the club change. Moments ago the place was lit for dancing and drinking, and now it feels closer to a performance or cabaret. I turn to the stage, and there, in just her shorts and boots, is Rosalie.

She has her back to us; the band is stepping away from the stage for a break, but over the speakers comes a warbling horn, and Rosalie begins to move to the music. 

“Stars shining bright above you,” Rosalie coos in her husky contralto. She still hasn’t turned to face the audience. I notice she has a feather boa draped around her bare shoulders. It’s a slinky marabou affair, thin and long. The white feathers contrast with the thick black cable to the microphone that Rosalie is cradling.

“Night breeze seems to whisper,  _ I love you, _ ” Rosalie shimmies a bit, peeks over her shoulder at us in the crowd. I’m spellbound, stunned silent, but the rest of the club hoots in encouragement.

“Birds singing in the sycamore tree…” Edward grips my arm and I turn to look at him. He looks uncomfortable, like he knows what’s coming next can’t be good, but I can’t imagine what that could be.

“Dream a little dream of me.” 

Rosalie turns fully and lets us have it. She doesn’t try to cover her chest with the boa; it’s merely there to accentuate her voluptuous frame. Rosalie bends at the waist and moves her shoulders, dangling and bouncing her breasts like a sexy Doris Day. 

As the music sways into the next verse, I spy Ondine in the wings of the stage, wearing a replica of Rosalie’s dance outfit down to the heeled boots. He sashays onstage and they dance in tandem as Rosalie continues the song. It’s sexy and strange, and I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland where nothing makes sense, but everything just  _ is _ . 

The mood in the club is red hot; beside us, Jasper has his head buried in Alice’s neck. I think I can see his jaw moving, like he’s eating her. I’m flushed with drink and the eroticism of it all. I press against Edward’s side and feel him press back. I turn so we’re chest to chest, not shoulder to shoulder, and I twine my arms around his neck, pulling him tight, tighter, tightest. He squeezes me in return and without thinking about it our mouths meet, and  _ this _ is making love.

Edward’s mouth moves against mine in the most mind-melting of ways. His lips nudge mine apart and his tongue touches mine, and I can taste the blend of tobacco from his Winstons as well as something warmer, sweeter. He tastes almost fruity, and it’s delicious. I can’t help but writhe a little against him as we kiss, forgetting that we’re in the middle of a hot club while my friend is standing feet away from us, nearly nude. I cup the back of Edward’s head and try to kiss my way closer. 

“I’m longing to linger till dawn, dear…” Rosalie croons as Edward and I break apart. Our eyes lock as he lowers his forehead to mine, never relinquishing his hold on me. I feel watery and I shiver with the intensity of the moment. I think I can see Ondine gyrating on stage near Rosalie, but I’m so focused on Edward’s green eyes that everything around us is just noise. 

“Do you want to come home with me?” Edward asks, his voice rough and deep.

“Yes,” I whisper, but when we push our way out of the club I can feel the weight of my bag digging into my shoulder and I think twice about going home with him. Edward lights a cigarette before stepping out to hail a taxi.

“Can we go to my place?” I ask, pulling gently on his sleeve. He looks at me with some reservation.

“Does that mean we’re not going to… you know…” Edward, who usually is eloquent and charming, seems at a loss for words. I can’t meet his eyes; I want to be closer to him but I don’t think I have any Vaseline, nor can I imagine thinking about Sean Connery while Edward is in bed with me. I want to be present for him, and I’m a little woozy from the drink. I also desperately want to please him, to make him stay, and I don’t know what to do.

Edward takes my silence as confirmation, and we spend the ride to my apartment sitting awkwardly in the back of the cab. I reach for my pocketbook to pay the driver but Edward waves me away. I’m grateful for his generosity but I’m anxious about what it all means.

He insists on walking me all the way to my door. Jane isn’t in the main room when I peek in, and I take that as a sign.

“Would you like to come in for a beer?” I ask. I feel shy, like we didn’t just share a kiss so heated it put all my girlish fantasies to shame. Edward nods warily, waiting for me at my couch as I uncap him one of Bree’s Rheingold’s. I join him on the couch and we sit side by side, feet barely touching.

Edward sips his beer quietly while I think of what to say. 

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“For what?” He asks. He doesn’t sound as gentle as usual, but he doesn’t sound mean either. It feels almost like he’s pushing me, in a good way. I  _ want _ to be open with him, but I don’t know how to address my own feelings about myself first.

“I don’t want you to think I’m hard,” I begin.

“You’re certainly not easy,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. I fidget a bit with the hem of the dress I’m borrowing from Rosalie. We’re both silent for a while before I can sum up my thoughts.

“I am frightened because I want you,” I finally choke out, my throat tight against nerves. Edward turns to look at me, his eyes big and bright with curiosity and-- I think, I  _ hope _ \-- affection.

“I want you, Bella,” he says.

“I want you,” I reply, and he leans close to stroke my cheek. He traces my birthmark with his thumb, up and over and around my eye, down to my jaw. His thumb slides over to my lips, which he lightly caresses. Something comes over me and I open my mouth and suck his thumb inside. He sucks in a sharp breath and stills as I nip at the pad of his thumb, my tongue laving over the whorls of his fingerprint. He tastes a little bitter here, like salt and hydroxide and tobacco. I want to eat him up.

Edward uses the hand touching my face to pull me in for a kiss. We come together with open mouths, our tongues moving together and noses knocking uncomfortably, but I can’t bring myself to pull away. I climb onto his lap, straddling him as our kiss deepens. His hands rove over my back, clutching and pulling. Each touch, each pause for breath, each move he makes sends a rush of feeling to my groin. I’m moving against him, up and down, my hips acting with a mind of their own and I feel him strain up against me, his body both soft and hard, straining, pushing, seeking…

“Holy hell!” Bree shouts, and the delicate moment of will-we-won’t-we is shattered.

Bree’s door slams shut and I leap off Edward, falling onto the floor and scuttling away like a startled crab. In falling I bang my head against the coffee table that Jane recently bought, knocking over an empty bottle of Rheingold which falls to the floor with a clatter. I’m lucky it didn’t break, because cleaning broken glass is never fun. 

Bree opens her door and peeks out at the commotion. She sees me sprawled across the floor, rubbing my head, and Edward leaning forward on the sofa, and looks at us like we’re a pair of circus freaks. Bree has her curlers in and she’s in her nightgown and slippers. I feel awful, both for the bump on my head and for getting caught by Bree.

“That was quite a show yous were putting on,” she says. “Sorry to catch you by surprise.”

“No, I’m sorry, Bridget,” I say. “That was… really inappropriate of me.”

“I mean, your bedroom is right there,” Bree says. 

“I know. Um, Edward, this is my roommate, Bridget,” I say.

She waves but doesn’t move closer to shake his hand or anything.

“Call me Bree.”

“Hi,” Edward says.

I realize Bree doesn’t want to come out to get a snack or go to the bathroom while she’s in her nightgown, but I don’t want to say goodbye to Edward while she’s standing there. I also don’t want to invite him into my room; whatever was building between us there is long gone. I wonder if it’s possible that something could have led to sex tonight, but I know I don’t want our first time together to be while I have a sore head.

“Um, Bree, can we have a moment alone? I was just seeing Edward out,” I say.

She looks at me skeptically.

“I’ll say so,” she says, and retreats into her room. I’m mortified; looking up at Edward, he looks mortified as well. 

“Hi,” I say stupidly. He smiles gently at me, but it’s not quite his half smile.

“Um, I’ll see you out…” I say. I push myself off the ground but Edward tarries in joining me. He’s all hunched over as he stands, his hands in his pockets. He looks almost ashamed, and that makes me feel terrible.

I walk him to the door, which is only a few steps away, but I stop before I open it. 

“Can we… maybe try that again? Sometime?” I ask. I can’t meet his eye as I say it, but as soon as the words leave my mouth I’m searching his face for answers.

Edward looks at me, hard. His eyes are smoldering and I can see there’s much left unsaid between us. I think we’re both wondering who will break first, who will say the unspeakable things. I hope for the sake of my own courage it’s me, but I also want him to show me that he’s brave, that he can talk about the things that made us who we are. I think we’re both hoping it can happen before something changes and makes us different. I want to be right for him; I can only hope he wants to be right for me too.

“Yes,” he says simply. He kisses me on my lips chastely, but with real pressure. He kisses both my eyes and then my lips again, and I’m tingling with our closeness.

“I have the 10th off. Can I call you in a few days and we’ll set something up?” He asks. I nod and open the door. He starts to walk out when I grab his sleeve to stop him.

“I’ll miss you,” I whisper. Edward softens at this and takes his hand out of his pocket to gently rub my arm.

“Me too,” he says. He continues out the door and towards the stairs. I watch him go and am about to close the door when he turns around and looks at me.

“Bella?” He calls.

“Yes?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe just to talk?”

I can’t contain the grin that splits my face. I nod eagerly and Edward smiles before turning and stepping down the stairs. I grin like a lunatic as I lock the door and flee to my bedroom, because I have a man who wants me. I have a man who will call me tomorrow, just to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summer 1966 was the hottest summer on record in New York City for the millennia up until that year; 1977 would break that record. July 2nd saw a temperature of 100 and July 3rd saw 103, the highest heat New York City would experience all summer. 
> 
> Alki Beach is a beach located in West Seattle. It’s beautiful and wasn’t super touristy during my youth. Nowadays it gets crowded. Fun fact: “Alki” is the (unofficial) state motto for Washington, a Chinook word meaning “by and by.” 
> 
> Cafe Au Go Go was another Greenwich Village haunt for Warhol Superstars in the 1960s. It was the first venue the Grateful Dead played in New York City, and hosted virtually all the greats of the late 60s. Cafe Au Go Go was located directly across the street from The Bitter End, another nightclub the Superstars frequented, and the two locations fought for attendees by offering bigger and stranger club acts. Sadly, the nightclub closed in 1969.
> 
> “Oscar” was the name of the doorman of the Barbizon Women’s Hotel in the early 1960s. The Barbizon is famous for hosting many up-and-coming female creatives; Sylvia Plath is possibly the most noted former resident of the Barbizon, mentioning it by name in The Bell Jar (which I was obsessed with when I was 20 and depressed). Other famous former residents include Lauren Bacall, Grace Kelly, Liza Minelli, and Little Edie of Grey Gardens. The Barbizon was a little more expensive than the Martha Washington Hotel for Women, where Bella stays when she first moves to New York, and a bit too uptight for Rosalie, hence her residence at the Hotel Chelsea.
> 
> “California Dreamin” is a song by the Mamas & the Papas. It was super popular in 1966, and definitely would have fit the summer mood. “Strangers in the Night” by Frank Sinatra was the Billboard #1 single of the week that ended just before July 4th, so it likely was still in rotation on radio stations.
> 
> The Rice-a-Roni jingle that Rosalie sings came out when the brand (started in San Francisco) rolled out nationwide in 1962. Bella can’t remember having heard the jingle before her visit in 1960 because it hadn’t yet hit airwaves. 
> 
> “Liar, Liar” is a song by the Castaways. Released in 1964, it’s a staple of the emerging garage rock of the 1960s.
> 
> Aqua Net was the hairspray the Ronettes used in the 1960s. It’s responsible for many a preppy beehive from that decade. I think they talk about Aqua Net in Mad Men but I’ll admit that I was more focused on the clothing (and Jon Hamm) when I watched the show than I was the plot.
> 
> Amphetamines were the drug of choice of most of the Warhol Superstars in the 1960s. Some of the Superstars themselves weren’t on speed, but many to most of the people surrounding the group did use and grow to depend on amphetamines. Edie Sedgwick was a notorious amphetamine user. I’m trying to deal with the drugs as they were dealt with within the culture of the Superstars group; I hope this doesn’t come across as my endorsement of speed or anything like that. It’s hard to write a narrative that addresses drug use without either sounding preachy about how drugs ruin lives or like drugs are an experience most should try. I hope to toe the line.
> 
> “Ain’t That Loving You” was recorded by Elvis in 1956 and released as a single in 1964. I’m imagining it being covered here by the Youngbloods, who served for a time in 1966 as the house band for Cafe Au Go Go.
> 
> Ondine was the stage name of Robert Olivo, a dancer and one of Warhol’s Superstars. He played the Pope in The Chelsea Girls, which is the film they’re shooting.
> 
> Nico was the stage name of Christa Päffgen, the German singer-songwriter who headed the Velvet Underground for some time in the 1960s. Lou Reed was the leader of the Velvet Underground, the guitarist and principal singer-songwriter. We have him to thank for one of my favorite songs of all time: “Sunday Morning.”
> 
> Ultra Violet was one of the Superstars. She wore purple hair, which lent itself to her stage name.
> 
> Taylor is Taylor Mead, a member of the Superstars. He was an actor before he met Warhol, and when a publication complained about Warhol’s movies that featured Mead’s backside, he and Warhol shot a 60 minute movie called Taylor Mead’s Ass. You can’t make this stuff up.
> 
> Eric is Eric Emerson, one of the Superstars. His first movie with Andy was The Chelsea Girls, which Andy and the crew are about to film. He later became a glam punk rocker.
> 
> Billy Name designed Warhol’s original Factory and was responsible for making it a silver paradise. We’ll visit the actual Factory in chapter 8, I promise!
> 
> The song Rosalie sings is “Dream a Little Dream,” a song that my grandmother used to sing to me. Listen to the Doris Day version— Michael Bublé doesn’t do the song justice.
> 
> Title song is "Good Lovin'" by the Rascals! Give it a listen!
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	7. L'eau à la bouche

**July 10th, 1966**

**New York City**

**Edward**

The skies over Manhattan are overcast this morning despite reports that temperatures will reach the mid-90s by noon. My party line has been busy each time I’ve tried calling on it; my latest attempt a few minutes ago resulted in an angry woman yelling at me in Spanish. I decide to try calling Bella from a payphone on my way to pick her up for our day together.

Although it’s pretty clear Bella knows her way around Manhattan, I’ve lived in New York long enough to be comfortable in most of the boroughs. I want to show her around the Bronx, where I work. I have my Minolta with me, along with a few extra rolls of film. I’d like to photograph Bella at the botanical gardens and maybe show her the Bronx zoo. I can’t help but hope that taking her out and showing her a bit of my world will butter her up a bit, make her want to show me more of herself. Figuratively and literally; I did see her breasts while taking her picture after our day at Coney Island, but I was looking at her through a lens. I want to see her up close and personal.

I cut through Tompkins Square Park on my walk to Bella’s, and pause at the corner of East 7th Street and Avenue B to call her from the payphone. Just my luck: Bridget or Bree or whatever her name is answers the phone.

“I was  _ wondering _ when you’d finally call,” she says. She doesn’t know that Bella and I manage to sneak in a few minutes on the phone per day. I have the apartment number and the pancake house’s number memorized for ease of contact. Since getting interrupted while heavy petting, I’ve been thinking about Bella night and day. The way she moved against me makes my dreams both better and uncomfortable, and I fantasize about what would have come next if her roommate hadn’t walked in on us.

“Can you put Bella on?” I ask. I hear her set the phone down on the table, then the line is quiet for a moment. 

“Hello?” Bella says.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m on my way over. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she says. She sounds a little breathless. It makes my knees go a little weak; this girl makes me feel like a teenager again. It’s different, though. As a kid, I wasn’t that interested in dating. I thought more about girls’ bodies and sex. I was obsessed with it before I ever had it, and when I did have it, I was obsessed with it happening again. It was only a year and a half later that my sister died, and with it, my obsession. Sure, I fooled around when I moved to New York, and I’d been far from celibate, but being so close and yet so far from Bella was turning me into the hound dog I was a decade ago.

“I’ll see you soon, then,” I said. I wait for Bella to hang up first before I put down the phone. It makes me feel a little closer to her for a second longer.

Bella is waiting for me on her stoop. I smile as soon as I see her and she stands on her toes to give me a kiss on my cheek. I can’t resist wrapping an arm around her and pulling her in for a tight hug. Bella immediately nuzzles into me and I think I feel the ghost of a kiss against my chest. We pull apart and just smile at each other stupidly. She’s not wearing makeup like she did when we went to Cafe Au Go Go and she looks divine.

“I thought I’d show you the Bronx,” I tell her. “It’s kind of my borough, even though I live in Manhattan.”

“Why don’t you live closer to work?” Bella asks as we board the F train at the 2nd Avenue station. We luck out and get two seats by the door. Bella rests her head on my shoulder as I think about why I chose to move to Manhattan when I got my apartment.

“I wanted to be close to the arts,” I admit. “I know I could live a lot cheaper in the Bronx. I could have a bigger place, a two bedroom… who knows. I worked at the paper part-time for a while before they got me on full time, and even then it was a trial basis. So I figured I’d stay in Manhattan because I like it enough here.”

Bella considers this. “Are there other parts of the city you like better?” 

I shrug. “Brooklyn is nice. But the papers there are pretty tight with their staff. I don’t know if I’d be able to get a job.”

“Do you want to work in the news?” Bella asks.

I pause for a second. I realize I haven’t thought too long or hard about work in a long time. Possibly since Pa was hounding me to go to college and law school. When I was a kid I wanted to be a cowboy, probably because I loved John Wayne so much. I saw  _ The Searchers _ in theaters eight times and wished I’d seen it more. I wanted adventure until it felt like I was being directed towards a life that Pa would control, and then all I wanted was freedom. When I left for New York, it was only with that ideal and I guess I’ve been too busy working and figuring out how to be on my own to think any further than that.

“It’s an option,” I say. I don’t elaborate. 

“What are the other options?” Bella pushes. I want to feel irritated but she’s pretty perceptive and these questions are making me think.

“Well… I could probably work with Andy more. If he wanted to, I mean. He’s said he wanted to, so…” 

Bella nods at me encouragingly. I go on.

“I guess I could also go back to school. Get a law degree or something. My Pa wants me to take over his practice back in Chicago.”

“I didn’t know your dad was a lawyer,” Bella says. I try to smile a bit; it’s sweet that she likes getting to know me, but I don’t feel too kindly about Pa. I don’t want her to know what a disappointment I am to him.

“Yeah. He hates me, though.”

I don’t know what makes me say that, but I do, bitterly. Bella puts her hand on my arm. It’s comforting and it makes me feel warm all over but I don’t feel like I deserve to be comforted for making my Pa’s life hell.

“If he knew you, really knew you, he could never hate you,” she says quietly. I can barely hear her voice over the din of the subway. Her eyes are sensitive and probing; it’s like she can see all my inner mess, but she still wants to be around. I don’t understand it completely, but I’m not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth.

We get off at the Bedford Park Boulevard station after switching to the D train at Broadway-Lafayette. The walk to the botanical gardens is about twelve blocks but the clouds are clearing up and I never mind a stroll. Bella doesn’t either, and we walk hand in hand to the conservatory. We stop in front of it, marveling at the greenhouse. It’s beautiful, constructed of steel and clear glass. Bella looks up at me with a strange look in her eye.

“Can I take your picture?” She asks, pointing at my camera bag. 

“Uh… sure, I guess,” I say. I pull out my camera but am hesitant to hand it to her. It’s a really nice camera, and it’s my job. I’m not dead broke at the moment but I’m in no place to buy a new one.

“You don’t have to,” Bella says, but that cements things. I do have to let her take my picture. I give her the camera and immediately start in on how to use it.

“I’ll hold on to the lens cap,” I say, “and here’s where you adjust the focus. You can play around with the f-stop here, and adjust for light here--”

“I’ve used a camera before,” Bella says, pushing my hands away. I’m stiff for a moment, still wanting to show her what to push and how to check focus but I take a deep breath and just let it go. If she wants to take a picture of me, she should. The picture doesn’t need to be up to my work standards. I ought to hang loose every once and a while.

Bella backs away from me. I stand awkwardly before the conservatory, not really sure what to do with myself. I’m very rarely in front of the camera; in fact, I can’t remember the last time I had my picture taken. I can’t help but wonder if this is how Bella felt when I asked to take her picture, but she was so natural in front of me that I try to shake the thought.

“Smile, man,” Bella says. She lifts one hand from her grip on the camera and my heart stops for a second. I lunge forward a half step, instincts telling me to catch the camera before it falls from her grip, but she holds it steady and I see her finger move on the shudder, catching me in motion.

“Hey!” I shout. “I wasn’t ready!”

Bella lowers the camera and smiles beatifically at me. 

“Get ready, then!” She calls back to me. I feel all awkward again, but a bit more relaxed now that she’s already taken a picture. I crack a little half smile and drop my arms to my sides. It’s funny how I just live my life without thinking about my arms, but now that a pretty girl is looking at me through a camera I have no idea what to do with them. I have to correct myself: Bella is more than just a pretty girl. She’s  _ my _ girl. 

The thought makes me smile for real. In my head, the Temptations play and I bask in the joy of knowing what David Ruffin meant when he sang about having sunshine on a cloudy day. If you don’t know, you just don’t know. And I’m lucky that I know.

Having music in my head makes me relax further, and Bella snaps a few more pictures of me as I’m just standing there smiling like a dummy. I can’t help but notice that she doesn’t fiddle with the exposure or adjust the lens but I let these observations wash over me like a warm shower. When Bella approaches me to tell me she’s had her fill of picture taking, I’m singing along to the song in my head.

“I’ve got so-o-o much honey, the bees envy me,” I sing softly to her. She looks up at me, all smiles. I take the camera from her and pull her into my arms to dance, awkwardly holding the Minolta in the hand I’d put on her shoulder. I rest my wrist there instead as we turn slowly in place.

“I’ve got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees,” I continue. Bella laughs and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard all week.

“Well, I’d guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way?” 

Bella stands on her toes and kisses my cheek as I sing.

“My girl,” I sing, then I hum the rest of the chorus. Some things don’t need to be said. Or sung, for that matter; Bella just seems to get my intentions, and I can’t help but think I love her for it.

Shaking wild thoughts out of my head, I return Bella’s kiss on the cheek and move to put my camera back in the bag when she stops me.

“Can we get someone to take our picture?” She asks. She’s a little shy about it, which is cuter than cute. I can’t say no to her, so we stop a guy who looks like too much of a dork to steal my camera and ask him for a picture.

We pose together in front of the conservatory. Bella stands beside me, close but not pressed against me. I put my arm around her back but instead of touching my hand to her waist like I want to, I rest it at the small of her back. It’s a bit austere but it feels more appropriate than having a cuddle in the park in front of a camera. 

“Say cheese,” the dude says, and we do. He’s far enough from us that I can’t hear the shutter but I know my camera well enough to know it’s there. He steps a bit closer to us but instead of handing back the camera, he reframes us to get a picture of just our faces together. It will probably look strange, with Bella’s head only coming up to my shoulder, but it’ll be nice to see the two of us together, in crisper focus. 

I thank the guy for taking the pictures and slip a dollar from my pocket into his hand as I shake it. He goes on his merry way, I return my camera to its case, and Bella and I take in the park.

We walk for a while, looking at the trees and flowers. Everything is lush and alive, although the heat makes some of the more fragile blooms droop. Bella stops and smells every rosebush. When I tease her that each one smells the same, her eyes get big and she insists that I’m wrong. She spends the next half hour making me smell every flower with her, pointing out the nuances in fragrance. I wonder if I smoke too much since everything smells kind of similar, but I enjoy her attention so focused on my experience that I go along with it and agree that every scent is unique.

Bella and I peek in at the zoo. She’s a little hesitant about going in, and I ask why.

“I just feel bad about animals being kept in cages,” she says softly. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“You’re not one of those people who don’t eat meat, though, right?” I ask. 

“I had a hot dog at Coney Island, remember?” She says. “I eat animals, sure. I just don’t want to see them living in such small spaces. They used to be free, and now they’re not… It makes me sad.” 

Put that way, it makes me a little sad too. We go back to the flowers and Bella’s mood brightens again. I don’t like her somber, but it’s not so much that I don’t  _ like _ her. It’s more that I don’t like that she feels that way, which makes me feel a little funny inside.

After a while I’m feeling hungry and suggest we stop at a deli for lunch. The Jewish delis in the Bronx are tasty and quick with their service. I’ve eaten at Liebman’s a number of times since it’s close enough to work. One of my first photos that ran in the paper was taken after I had a corned beef sandwich at the counter, of a car someone set on fire in the street outside. 

We get a table without any wait time. Bella looks over the menu eagerly before looking up at me shyly.

“Can I order for you?” She asks. I’m a little taken aback; I thought it was the men who ought to order for women, but I’m willing to play her game.

“Sure,” I agree. When the skinny waiter comes by with a pad of paper Bella asks him for two egg creams, which sound fairly disgusting to me. He comes back after a minute with two drinks in milkshake cups, but they look more like glasses of chocolate milk than anything else. Almost like a chocolate ice cream soda, but I can’t see any scoop of ice cream in the glass. Bella pushes one to my side of the table and eagerly slurps hers.

I take a tentative sip, surprised by the frothy taste of chocolate. It’s bubbly; the carbonation stings my nose and I splutter a little after my first swallow.

Bella has a tiny line of chocolate over her lip, which is a strange contrast to her birthmark. She licks her lips and her tongue is discolored, like she’s been eating black licorice. I want to get a kiss and taste it, but now is definitely not an appropriate time to do so.

“What do you think?” She asks. “My mother used to make me egg creams in the summer, or after bad arguments with my father.”

“It’s good,” I say. “What’s in it?”

“Chocolate sauce, milk, and seltzer,” Bella explains, taking another drink. “Mother always said that a true egg cream came only from Fox’s syrup. No fountain place in Seattle could make them right, and when I asked for one they’d look at me like I was crazy.”

“Huh,” I say. The skinny waiter comes back and Bella orders us a plate of knishes, chicken liver, and a side of tongue. She makes sure the food will come with a side of pickles and asks for sauerkraut as well. I had no idea what to expect when she asked to order for us; her fluency with the menu is impressive and almost erotic. I’m a little excited at the thought of sharing tongue with her, thrilled by the suggestiveness of it.

“Where’d you learn to order like that?” I ask when the waiter takes off. Bella smiles bashfully and looks at her lap.

“Well, you pick things up when you work as a waitress…” She begins. “But this menu is familiar to me. Mother used to make chicken liver and knishes regularly. We’d have tongue for special occasions-- always on my birthday. I just wanted to share that with you.”

“I thought you were Italian,” I confess to her. I feel stupid as soon as I say it, but lately I’ve been speaking without thinking first. 

“I am, sort of,” she says. “Mother was born in New York City, actually. But her parents were from Livorno. They emigrated here just before she was born.”

“Do you speak Italian, then?” I ask. Bella smiles and shakes her head.

“ _ Mi dispiace, ma no. _ ” 

“That sounded pretty Italian to me.”

“I just said ‘sorry, but no.’ Mother grew up speaking both languages but when I was very little, she and her parents had a falling out of sorts, and she stopped speaking to them. She also stopped speaking Italian at home. I know some words, but nothing really important,” she says.

“So… aren’t knishes Jewish food?” I ask. I didn’t know there were Italian Jews. I thought they were all Catholic.

Bella shrugs. “Father is Polish and French. Mother always tried to feed him what he was used to. We only ate spaghetti in the summer.”

I rub her hand. “That’s a tragedy.” She grins at me and our food arrives. We dig in and it’s delicious. I’m used to eating sandwiches at delis, but this food is hot and salty and savory. Bella heaps sauerkraut on her knish and I follow suit; the tang of the pickled cabbage makes the fat of the dumpling sing with flavor. The tongue is tender and succulent. We chase our meal with the dregs of the egg cream, and I pretend I don’t notice when Bella slides some cash into my wallet when I go to the counter to pay. 

Since we didn’t look at the zoo, I suggest we go to the movies. The theater close to the deli has a western showing in CinemaScope; Bella insists on buying our tickets to  _ Duel at Diablo _ , a western that was released nearly a month ago. I buy a bag of popcorn for us to share, and on an impulse I pick up a few sticks of black licorice. 

In the dark theater, Bella squeals with delight at the licorice. Her eyes are glued to the screen while I’m spellbound by the way she’s eating the licorice. Bella holds the licorice like a straw and sucks at it before delicately biting off a piece that she then holds in her mouth until it dissolves. The way the light of the projection catches her jaw as it moves around the candy in her mouth is spellbinding, and by the time she’s done with her candy I think I’m the one drooling.

She catches me looking and looks a little self conscious; the theater is nearly half full, and we’ve got seats in the very back. Usually I like to be right at the screen but Bella wanted to sit closer to the door, and I’d do just about anything for her. Bella looks up at me and I think she can see the heat in my eyes because she leans in to kiss me, and then our hands are all over one another. 

The dark seems to loosen up whatever grip holds Bella back from being physical with me, because her hands are tearing trails through my hair and over my shoulders. I respond by exploring in kind, and I’m stunned when Bella grabs my hand from the back of her neck and places it over her breast. It’s incredible; warm and supple in my grasp, Bella squirms as I palpate it and roll it in my hand. She gasps against my mouth, letting out the tiniest little sound, and I have to let go of her breast to reach down to adjust myself.

Our kissing is sloppier than it’s ever been, and it’s so hot I think I’m sweating. When Bella breaks the kiss to pant a little, I bring my other hand to her other breast and kiss my way across her cheek to her ear. Her kisses tasted like the sweet and salty licorice, which was exhilarating, but her neck tastes like heaven. I kiss and lick and suck while I feel her up, encouraged by Bella tilting her neck for better access. If I doubted that I was all the way hard, that doubt is banished when Bella laces her fingers through my hair, nails scratching my scalp, pulling me closer to her neck. My hips lift off the seat of their own accord.

I find one particularly delicious spot on her neck that seems to make Bella just as restless as I feel, and I keep my mouth there while I let my hands move south. Bella’s waist is as soft and as enticing as her breasts. She rocks into my touch as I stroke my thumbs over her curves and spreads her legs a bit when I reach her hips. I’m pushing one hand across her upper thigh when the lights flicker on and we wrench apart.

Bella and I sit awkwardly together through the credits of the movie, our popcorn untouched next to our feet on the sticky theater floor. We’re both breathing heavily; it goes unsaid that I need a minute to calm down before we venture out into decent society. 

At the end of the credits, we abandon the theater and make our way back to Manhattan on the bus. Bella is flushed the whole ride and I fear I’m no better. We don’t discuss what to do next or where to go; instead, the general mood that falls over us is that we’ve stepped into dangerous and exciting territory. I don’t want to push Bella away from me, yet I don’t feel the need to pull her closer. I escort Bella to her apartment and kiss her thoroughly at the door. She doesn’t invite me in but I don’t feel rejected.

I turn to head downstairs when Bella calls my name.

“On Friday, I’m filming my scene for Andy’s movie,” she says. “Want to come with me?”

I run a hand through my hair. It feels incredibly messy without me adding to the mess; a leftover from our passion in the theater. “Do I have to be in it?”

“No,” Bella says. “I just thought it might be nice to have you there.”

I smile. “Sure. I’ll pick you up from work, okay?”

Bella beams at me. “Okay.”

As she turns to the door, she pushes her hair behind her ear and I catch sight of the side of her neck. Beside her birthmark is a hickey that is nearly just as dark as the mark; it stirs something in my blood, and I race home to get in the shower and think about it, along with the heat and desire that flowed between us in the dark of the movie theater. I wonder what it will be like, to see Bella on the big screen, to feel her beside me, and to get to go home with her when it’s all over. It’s the first time I’ve felt genuine, untainted excitement for something; when I come, it’s to thoughts of Bella on the big screen… with  _ my _ hickey on her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for the chapter is by Serge Gainsbourg. The title translation is literally "mouth water," which sounds gross, but it refers to someone being mouthwatering. It's fitting, given what happens later in the chapter...
> 
> The New York Botanical Gardens is in The Bronx. The conservatory Edward and Bella visit is the Enid A. Haupt Conservatory, but it wasn't named as such until 1978. The Bronx Zoo is located in the gardens.
> 
> Fun fact: In the 60s, "dude" meant "geek." So Edward is calling the guy who takes the picture of him and Bella a geek.
> 
> Liebman's is a Jewish deli in The Bronx that's been around since 1954. What Bella orders is my old order, from before I became a vegetarian. If you want to try delicious Jewish food, get potato knishes, top them with sauerkraut, and have a tongue sandwich. Trust me.
> 
> Egg creams are pretty exclusively East Coast and Jewish drinks. The official "authentic" recipe is Fox's U-Bet Chocolate Syrup, seltzer, and milk. I don't think Fox's Syrup is so necessary for an authentic egg cream, but if you want to make yourself an egg cream at home you absolutely *must* use the most bubbly seltzer in the world. It should be so bubbly it makes your nose itch, like it does for Edward. 
> 
> Duel at Diablo was released on June 15, 1966. It's a western starring James Garner and Sidney Poitier. 
> 
> CinemaScope was a special lens for shooting movies for widescreen display. It was exclusively used from 1953-1967. 
> 
> And that's it! Let me know what you think!


	8. I Am a Rock

**July 15th, 1966**

**New York City**

**Bella**

Work at the pancake house has become so second nature that I’m almost able to live out a second life while I’m working. It’s easy to serve and anticipate filming my scene for Andy’s movie this afternoon. It’s almost meditative to work and focus on another thing, even though I’ve found that my good mood can shift while I’m in this alternate headspace. I find I can admit to myself things that I was afraid to think about before; sometimes this is painful.

When I planned to come to New York, I’d planned to come with Mr. Banner. We’d spent all of my time in high school doing a strange dance; some of the time he was my inspirational, revolutionary teacher, a man who played the new Beatles records for us in class and rolled his eyes when Mrs. Weber came to yell at him to turn it down. Sometimes he was a friend, a confidant. He held me when President Kennedy was assassinated, then held me again just two months later when my mother up and vanished. He took me under his wing and bought me my first pack of cigarettes when I was fifteen, invited me over for lunch on weekends when my father worked, let me drink beer with him in the backyard of his house on 23rd Avenue and Union Street. He told me about college, promised me he’d help me apply and get in. We planned a trip together to the University of Washington to talk to an admissions counselor, but when the day came, he took me instead to a doctor’s office in Boeing Hill where the doctor asked me about my sexual history and spread me open with a speculum. I left the office feeling dazed, a freshly-fitted diaphragm in a pink plastic box in my pocket.

Mr. Banner had spent most of my sophomore year and all of my junior buttering me up. I hadn’t realized what was happening until I was at his home, in his living room, hazy-headed with wine, nearly sixteen years old but not quite. He kissed me and undressed me and ignored me the next day in class.

“It’s 1964, Isabella,” he said the following weekend as I fretted about being marriageable. “Everyone’s doing it.”

Suddenly, at school, I didn’t care about being popular or fitting in. Not that I’d ever really cared to begin with, but it all seemed so trivial. I had a man who loved me and wanted me. I could finish high school and go to college and we’d get married along the way, move to New York, and live out a bohemian existence with the beat poets in the East Village. Without consciously planning it, my life was laid out ahead of me. I accepted it blindly until it all fell apart.

Could that be what was happening now? Could Edward be seducing me, only to drop me at the first sign of trouble? What was I worth to him? These questions chased themselves throughout my head as I refilled small pitchers of syrup, mopped up tables, took orders. I hardly notice the time passing until I see Edward waving at me through the window.

Just seeing him calms me down a little. It’s easier to forget about Mr. Banner and his rotten treatment than it is to forget about my father’s disappointment. I write down the time I’m leaving work on my heavy timesheet in what we call the back office, which is really just a supply closet with a tiny desk. Mr. Newton sometimes runs numbers back here, but he’s off today. We don’t have a time punch-clock like I had at Bloomingdale’s, but I don’t mind logging my hours longhand. 

Edward greets me with a sweet kiss. I’ve just switched from using hairpins to keep my hair up at work to clips-- _not_ barrettes-- and Edward easily undoes them. He likes my hair down, I know. When we’re together he’s always playing with it. It makes me wonder if his scalp is more sensitive than mine, because while it feels nice to have his attention on me, it’s not as electrifying as when he touches my birthmark. 

His touch electrifies me. It’s been hard to sleep since we… well, fooled around… in the movie theater. I can’t stop thinking about his hands against my body, his mouth on my neck, the path his hand followed towards my crotch. If the movie hadn’t stopped, what would have happened next? Where do we go from here?

Edward hums as we walk to our subway platform. I love that he listens to music as much as-- no, more-- than I do. On the nights we couldn’t see each other but could talk on the phone, we’d play a game of humming and guessing the song. I don’t know if he’s inviting me to play, but I’m pretty sure I’m right when I guess.

“Paperback Writer,” I whisper in Edward’s ear as we board the 4 train. He grins at me, kisses my cheek for guessing right. He nudges me with his elbow.

“Your turn.”

I think for a moment before humming “In My Life.” Rather than guessing the song, Edward leans in to whisper-sing along in my ear.

“In my-y-y life, I’ve loved you more.” I feel a rush of excitement come over me, starting in my head and settling in my stomach. I’m tingling all over with it. Edward picks up on my shudder and kisses my earlobe. 

I can imagine a life where this is real. It’s so clear in my mind: Edward, my partner, my lover, proclaiming his love for me to a soundtrack of our own making. Edward meeting me at the end of a day of classes at college. Edward helping me in the kitchen. Edward escorting me to our room and making love to me, even though I grow less certain with each passing day what making love really means. I don’t have to imagine loving Edward; as his lips touch my skin, I realize I already do. I can imagine Edward loving me. But at the same time, I can’t believe it is a real possibility.

I’m sobered by this line of thought, and that brings forth the reality that we’re on our way from East Harlem to Chelsea where I will be in front of a camera. I don’t know what direction Andy will give me. I’ve seen him shoot film of Alice where he instructed her to take her clothes off, then sat back as she she did. He played the reel backwards, so it looked like Alice was bending in awkward ways to put her clothes on. Andy showed the film at Caffe Cino where Leonard Melfi called it “a revelation.” 

I half heartedly get back into the game with Edward, guessing the theme to _Gilligan’s Island_ . I guess wrong when Edward hums the theme to _Get Smart_ , but Edward immediately guesses the theme to _The Andy Griffith Show_. I give him a double kiss on the cheek for winning, since he snaps and whistles along better than I could ever hum it.

We switch trains at 59th and Lexington and get on the R train to Chelsea. Edward squeezes my hand as we exit the 49th Street subway station. I think he can sense my nerves as we head northwest toward Broadway, because he stops me at the corner and gives me a tight hug.

“I thought you wanted to do this,” he says. I’m tucked into his neck and although it’s hot and humid, I feel comfortable. 

“I don’t know what I want,” I admit to his shoulder. I’m too cowardly to look him in the face.

Edward gently nudges me so I’m not huddled against him so tightly. He looks contemplative, even a little pained as we stand there. Some people grouch about us hogging the sidewalk, but I’m hypnotized by Edward’s green eyes and his searching gaze.

“I don’t know how to help you,” he finally says. “I can’t help you get what you want if you don’t know what that is.”

I’m panicked. All I can think about is how much I’ve already lost; my mother, my purity, Mr. Banner, my home, my father, my sense of direction… I don’t want to add Edward to that. At the same time, I don’t want to admit that he’s something meaningful to me. Telling Mr. Banner how I felt, writing him love notes, writing him letters, sacrificing my comfort for him-- all of these things pushed him further away. I bared my soul to him and he let all that love pass through without returning it. My mother’s baffling abandonment; my father’s fury at the discovery of my diaphragm; my room torn to pieces, a pair of bloody underwear clutched in my father’s hand as he roared at me; the phone torn out of the wall… 

I am stuck in this moment, just as I am stuck in the crucible of past and future. There is only this moment, and in this moment I choose Edward.

“I can’t tell you what I want,” I begin, choking up. “Because apart from you, I don’t know what it is that I want.”

Edward nods at my confession and touches my cheek. I think he’s going to trace my birthmark but he pulls his finger away and touches it to his mouth. I realize I’m crying; he’s tasting my tears. 

This is so absurd that I laugh a little, and Edward joins in. He kisses the tear tracks on my face, and his lips come away stained with my running mascara. I laugh and kiss him on the lips, smearing the makeup onto my own face. 

“I think I do want to do the movie,” I say. Edward smiles and we cross the street to the hotel.

Outside the hotel is Rene Ricard. I’ve met him at Factory events, but I tend to be a wallflower so I don’t really know him. Rosalie mentioned he lives down the hall from her at the Hotel Chelsea, but Edward smiles and shakes his hand like they’re old pals.

“We’ve met,” Rene says to me. He looks older than his voice sounds. I nod at him even though I can’t picture the time we met; he’s just always been in my peripheral, and I guess I assumed that I’d been in his.

“Rene, right?” I say. 

“Yes. You’re Odette.”

“That’s what Andy calls me.”

Edward rubs the back of his head, messing up his already messy hair. I love his copper locks, and it’s good he’s a photographer because I can’t imagine many jobs that would let him have such long and unkempt hair. 

“Yous all have nicknames around here,” Edward says. Most of the time his accent isn’t too thick, but around my friends his words flatten out and make him sound more distinguished. I’ve never been to Chicago, but on the phone Edward tells me stories about his childhood home that make the foreign city feel familiar. 

Rene nods at the entrance of the building.

“Go on up and see Ondine,” he says. “He and Nico are doing something together, Andy says.”

“Nico?” Edward asks as we pass the doorman to take the elevator. “I’ve seen The Velvet Underground!” 

“Have you?” I ask. I hadn’t seen play yet; Alice told me they played around the Factory all the time in January and February, but they’d gone to the West Coast by the time I arrived on the scene in March. I remember meeting Nico that night at Cafe Au Go Go, but I don’t think we were formally introduced.

“They’re great,” Edward says. I direct us to Rosalie’s room. The door is unlocked and I let us in. Rosalie is on her bed in a men’s shirt and pants, a pair of men’s shoes on her feet. Even though she’s reclining, it looks like she’s got her hair tucked up into a pageboy cap. Everything is in a shade of blue, which I’ve come to expect. She’s smoking with her cigarette holder, and for all that she’s dressed like a man, she’s glamorous. I feel self conscious in my waitressing dress and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror: I haven’t cleaned up my makeup after I cried. I must have looked like a total nut on the street.

Before Edward and I can make ourselves comfortable, Andy and Paul Morrissey barge into the room, although it’s hard to think of Andy as intrusive. He’s been nothing but dear to me, only getting irritable when I’m fickle about committing to working on these fanciful projects. 

“My darling Odette,” he greets me, kissing both of my cheeks. He sees Edward standing at my side and he smiles a genuine smile.

“Edward,” he says. “How nice to see you.”

“Hello, Andy,” Edward greets. 

Paul explains that the camera is set up in Rene’s room, which is next door to the room Edie Sedgwick used to rent. They’re filming scenes with people together and people separate; the idea is to play two scenes at a time on a split screen. I’m a bit of a stranger to filmmaking, and I don’t really understand how the movie will work, but I’m happy to help. 

“Do I go now?” I ask. Morrissey shakes his head.

“Ondine and Nico are getting ready to do something together. I think I’ll have you consult with Blue about what you’ll be reading…” Andy trails off. Morrissey lights a cigarette and passes it to Andy, who’s looking meaningfully at Rosalie. I feel like I’m intruding on something, but the tension is broken when Edward pulls my hair away from my ear.

“Is it alright with you if I go to the Factory? I want to develop some film in the darkroom,” he says in my ear. I turn to look at him, nervous to be alone but unwilling to admit I want him present while I’m being filmed. When I asked him to come with me I thought he’d stay. I don’t want to be a panty waist, so I let him go.

“Okay.” 

Edward gives me a peck on the cheek and leaves the room with Andy and Morrissey. Rosalie rises from the bed to give me a thorough study before grabbing her makeup box from the dresser.

“Would you let me do your makeup?” Rosalie asks. I nod and sit down in the chair at her room’s desk. Instead of pulling out cold cream to take my smeared makeup off, Rosalie takes out her Max Factor lipstick. Even though red lips are gauche these days, Rosalie doesn’t buy the Pink-a-Pades lipsticks I see advertised in magazines; those are more Alice’s look. 

Rosalie uncaps the lipstick and screws up the stub. 

“I have another tube of this color, so it’s all groovy if we use this one up,” she says, then she begins to apply the lipstick to my hairline.

“What are you doing?!” I flinch away from Rosalie. She’s gone and darkened my birthmark with lipstick!

Rosalie clucks at me like I’m a child. 

“Trust me on this,” Rosalie says. Reluctantly I let her use the lipstick to paint over my birthmark. It feels waxy and uncomfortable on my eyelid, but otherwise it just feels strange to have something other than cream makeup or cream lotion on my skin.

When she’s covered the left side of my neck where my birthmark ends, Rosalie looks at me like she’s dissatisfied.

“Will you let me do one more thing?” Rosalie asks. I have no choice but to nod, but it’s still a surprise that Rosalie paints a mirror image of the birthmark on the right side of my face too. 

I turn to look at myself in the little hand mirror that Rosalie pulls off her nightstand. For the first time in my life, I look symmetrical. Well, symmetrical aside from the mascara that clouds my cheeks, but Rosalie takes her Maybelline Solid Mascara cake out of the makeup box and fills an empty ashtray with a bit of water. She artfully combs the mascara over my cheeks and under my eyes with the brush, then clears out defined tear tracks with a cotton swab. 

“Take this,” Rosalie says, thrusting the mirror into my hands. As I’m looking at myself, Rosalie combs through my hair with her tortoiseshell comb, parting my hair severely down the middle. She uses a bit of wax to smooth it to my head; if it weren’t for the length of my hair, I might look bald for how pressed against my head it is. I look like the twin of myself, each angle of my face replicated with the makeup. I’m both repulsed and awed by this look. 

I look up at Rosalie, speechless. She grips my shoulder and we share a moment of understanding; we are both women alone in New York City. As much as Alice fits the same description, she calls home regularly to talk with her mother and older sister. Although we’ve never talked about it, I know that Rosalie has no one to call. Neither do I.

Although they look nothing alike, for an instant it’s as if I’m looking at my mother, ready to send me off to my first dance with a boy. Mother left before I could get asked to a dance, when I was barely fourteen; I’d never been kissed, never had anyone pay me any attention. I only began my period the week after she left; I used a washcloth as a sanitary napkin for months until my friend Jeanie bought me a belt and showed me how to order pads from the Sears catalog. Right here, right now, Rosalie is filling in a hole I’ve refused to acknowledge.

“Go, girl,” Rosalie says softly. I rise from the chair and impulsively hug her. I feel Rosalie’s shock at the embrace, but she pats me on the back and I tear up.

I walk down the hall to Rene’s room, and am instead ushered by Gerard, Andy’s assistant, into Edie’s old room. Andy follows me into the room and tells me to come back out into the hall, that Paul Morrissey will grab the camera and follow me into the room while filming. I’m still in my striped waitressing dress, my hair all strange from Rosalie’s styling, looking like a full on mess. 

Before Morrissey and Andy can meet me in the hallway, Rosalie appears at my shoulder. She’s buzzing with energy and she yanks me by my collar away from the door.

“I know what you have to do while they film you,” Rosalie says. Her pupils are blown so wide that her eyes almost look brown behind her thick glasses. Her face is an inch from mine, and I can smell her mentholated cigarettes on her breath. 

“What’s that?” I ask. I’m curious but also cautious. I know Rosalie can be an A-head, just as Alice and Jasper like to experiment with drugs, but I’ve never seen her on speed up close. 

“Cry,” she says breathlessly. “You just have to be sad and cry. Make your makeup just… drip off your face.”

I’m incredulous, and I’m sure my face shows it. My mother always called me her little library, because my face was as open as a book. Thinking of my mother makes my chin wobble, and Rosalie is positively beaming at me.

“Exactly that!” She cries. “Yes! Yes! Just like that!” I can hear her, but in my head I’m replaying the last time I saw my mother. I usually fight these memories, but at Rosalie’s direction, I’m clinging to them. 

“I’ll come check on you in a bit,” Rosalie whispers as I hear Andy call my name. I look up from where I’m standing, tears just beginning to fall, and see that Morrissey has his big camera pointed at me. 

I cast my eyes away from the camera and stalk into Edie’s room, full of emotion like I used to back home. I remember being angry about not being permitted to attend the Beach Boys show at the Opera House and arguing with my mother in the kitchen. I fling myself onto the bed and curl in on myself; in my head I’m in my house on Jefferson Street in Seattle, sobbing through the wall that my mother is horrible, that no one has a worse mother than I do. In the Chelsea Hotel, I’m gulping air and I feel myself getting wound up, but I’m also in Seattle, freshly fourteen and suffering from a too-strict father and a mother who never sides with me. 

I’m moving about on the bed, out of control. _Mother never protected me from Dad’s restrictions_ , I despair. I’m living through my life in reverse: I’m turning seventeen in the back of a Greyhound bus, I’m fifteen and I’m in Mr. Banner’s bed, I’m fourteen and I must destroy my Dion records, I’m twelve and my skirt is too short, I’m ten and I’m out playing too late, I’m eight and I must walk to school with my hand tightly clasped in Mother’s, I’m five and I’m in Tukwila and I’m too close to the Duwamish River… 

As I press my hands to my eyes, crying uncontrollably, I’m besieged by a new memory. _I’m five, and I’m too close to the Duwamish River, and my father is calling out to me, and I fall in. I’m twisted around in the water, pulled through the current at what feels like the speed of sound. I’m drowning. I surface; I hear my mother screaming and I am unable to do anything because I’m dragged back down. I open my eyes in the dirty water and I think I see God but I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I’m drowning…_

And then I’m in New York City again, being dragged from the bed by Rosalie, who has put her hair up in a hat. Before I can get my bearings, she slaps me across the face, hard, and before I even feel the sting she backhands me with the same hand. I’m stunned, silent.

“Enough, little bitch,” Rosalie says, but she’s putting on a voice. It’s deep and strange. My head is foggy from the shift in time I’m experiencing, but I notice that Rosalie has smeared some of her cake mascara over her chin and she has a cigarette dangling from her mouth. _She’s shamming as a man_ , I realize as I gasp for air. I look directly in the camera’s lens. I don’t know what Andy is waiting for, but I am done.

I let out a shaky breath, wipe my face with my hands, and push past everyone out of the room.

I don’t fight the tears that come as I deposit my tokens to get on the subway at 23rd Street. I look nuttier than a coconut tree but I don’t care, I don’t even think about where I’m going as I transfer from the 1 to the 7 at Times Square. I get off the subway at Grand Central Station and I’m a clown among businessmen as I nearly run to 47th Street. I race up the four flights of stairs at number 231 to the fifth floor: the Factory. It’s a maze of silver paint, mirrors, and aluminum foil sculptures, but I know where I’m headed. In the back there’s a darkroom and I push open the door without regard to the light pollution I’m causing.

Edward is hanging prints on the clothing lines tacked overhead. His hair looks almost black in the red of the safelight, and he’s wearing rubber gloves that I use for cleaning and goggles. He looks like a mad scientist, but so sure of himself in this environment that he can’t be mad. Edward looks away from the print he’s holding when I walk in, nearly drops the print when he sees my distress. 

“Bella!” He exclaims. Ever the professional, he hangs the print on the clothespin, sets down his tongs and strips off his gloves. Before he takes me into his arms, he removes the thick rubber apron he has on, but as soon as that’s hung up he’s holding me, stroking my hair, rubbing my shoulders.

He lets me melt against him and cry. I don’t know how long I go on for; I feel like I’m floating in and out of reality. In reality, the pain is sharp, focused. In the alternate reality, everything is blurry and strange. When I’m feeling more tethered to Earth, I realize Edward is humming in my ear and rocking me on my feet. 

“You Belong to Me,” I whisper. Mother used to sing that song to me, and I hated it until I heard The Duprees sing it in ’62. The harmonizing, the mixing of voices before the world is painted in the song spoke to me in a way my mother’s soft warbling never really did.

I feel Edward nod. 

“I’ll be so alone without you…” I sing softly. Edward holds me tightly and sways with more purpose. It’s like we’re dancing in the darkroom, cramped by the low tables holding developing trays and flasks for mixing chemicals.

“Maybe you’ll be lonesome too…” I feel Edward kiss my hair and squeeze me tighter. My voice is shaky with the remnants of my tears, and I’m exhausted from the day. I can’t believe I was keen to serve customers this morning, or that I was filmed, or that Rosalie hit me. I’m overwhelmed with the emotions of it all.

“Let me care for you,” Edward whispers, and it’s all I can do to nod.

He escorts me to the red couch in the corner of the Factory. I sit there and time passes as Edward finishes his work in the darkroom. He checks on me a few times, but I’m in my own world where time is strange and I’m a drifting balloon, miles above it all, untethered.

When Edward’s work is done, he brings me downstairs and hails us a cab to his walk up over Tompkins Square Park. He runs me a bath and hands me an undershirt and some of his underwear. 

“I’ll run your dress to a dry cleaner,” Edward says. I want to cry at how nice he’s being, but I have nothing left in me.

I settle into the hot bath and stare at my bra, underwear, and hose on the floor. I want to dunk my head under the water, but every time I sink down low enough to let the water touch my nose I’m thrown back into the brackish waters of the Duwamish River. The visions-- memories, maybe-- are jarring. I want to face them head on but I’m just so tired.

Edward knocks on the door sooner than I could expect. 

“Come in,” I say. My voice sounds far away and small. 

Edward has his head down, not looking at me. He’s giving me privacy, and I’m surprised to find I feel less naked now than I did earlier at the hotel. He kneels by the tub and I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees so he can’t really see anything.

“You can look at me,” I tell him, tipping his head up with a wet finger. It’s strange, this reversal of roles. Usually he’s the one encouraging me to look at him, but here I am, naked, raw, exposed, telling him to see me for the woman I am. _Woman_ , I think. Just earlier today I would have thought myself a girl.

Edward’s eyes meet mine, and without words I invite him into the bath. He shakily nods and undresses slowly. His chest is covered in a thin layer of downy auburn fur. He’s modest as he unbuttons his pants and turns from me so I can’t see his genitals as he slips off his boxers. I scoot backward in the tub, the movement sending waves of hot water up the sides of the enamel tub. I look away for modesty as Edward slides into the tub in front of me, and he adopts the same position I’m folded into. Arms around his legs, knees bent in front of him.

I let myself explore his body with my eyes. His thick brow and strong nose, his handsome jaw and lovely neck. His chest, which I reach out to touch. The hair that covers his pale skin is ticklish and I’m overcome by the strange desire to bury myself in it, to turn my head to his armpit and inhale. It startled me the other week, playing in the surf, pressing my face into his fur. It riled me up, kissing him and feeling his touch in the theater. _This is a man_ , I think, _I love this man_.

Edward shivers at my fingers on his skin, twitches away from me when I get too close to his underarms.

“I’m ticklish,” he admits quietly. 

Silently, I turn to face away from him, and he extends his legs so I can sink between them. He pulls me back against his chest and holds me loosely around my waist, never moving his hands to stroke my breasts or my public hair. His stillness is what I need right now, even though somewhere within me I long for something more. 

We sit together in the water until it starts to cool. I sink down in the water until my hair is totally submerged and Edward helps me wash the wax out of it. He has a bar of Wright’s soap, which he works into a lather between his hands and massages into my scalp. I let my eyes drift closed for a moment before opening them and looking at him as he washes my hair. He keeps his eyes trained on my face and hair. Mr. Banner never looked at my face when I was naked before him. Come to think of it, Mr. Banner was never fully nude before me, like Edward is now. 

Everything about the past and present aches inside me. How could I be the girl who made her mother leave, who made her schoolteacher behave “inappropriately,” as he said, and also be the girl who is making a living for herself in New York City? How could I drive my father out of his mind yet inspire gentleness in Edward? Where does my childhood end and my adulthood begin in all this mess?

I take in a deep breath and screw up my face as I plunge my head under the water. I want to stay in this space forever, where everything is wrong but I’m safe. Everything hurts but I’m soothed. I want to scream, I want to tear the world apart, but everything is already being shaped by this unbearable loneliness I feel at my core and--

Edward pulls me out of the water. He takes the plug out of the drain and stands me up in the tub. He wraps me in his thin towel and rubs me until I am only damp, pulls the shirt over my head and gives me a hug once he wraps the towel over the shirt.

“I’m going to make us a cup of tea,” he says. “Why don’t you get comfortable in my room?”

I understand now what is expected of me. I nod and slip into his room, using the towel to dry my hair as best I can. I strip off the shirt and put his underwear away in his dresser, then lie down on the bed naked. I don’t pull his sheet over me; I don’t know what he likes, but I’m ready to give it all to him, because this is what I owe him.

Edward knocks on the door before he comes in with two steaming mugs. He sees me on the bed and averts his eyes, setting the mugs on the floor before grabbing the towel to cover me.

“Bella, what is this?” He asks. I sit up.

“I thought you wanted this,” I say. I’m thrown off by his rejection and even though I’m all cried out, I want to cry again.

“No-- not like this,” he says, stuttering a bit. “I mean, I do. I do want you. But I don’t think you’re ready.”

I jump from the bed, angry and indignant. 

“Just who do you think you are, telling me what I’m ready or not ready for?” I yell. “You don’t know anything about me! I’m not a child, for crying out loud!”

Edward sits down on the bed. He rubs a hand over his face and through his hair. I want to comfort him but I’m seeing red and it’s easier to be angry with him than to feel hurt or confused by everything.

“Bella, do you want to make love to me?” He asks before looking up at me. I open my mouth to respond but he stops me.

“Honestly. Do you want to make love to me today?”

I can’t answer him. I don’t know if I want to. I know what I expected… but I don’t know if that’s what I wanted. I know I want to make love to him, but I don’t know about the time frame for that; Mr. Banner never asked me what I wanted, he only ever told me what we would do and when and how. 

Edward seems to understand my speechlessness. I’m a little library to him, he reads me like a book, and I am convinced now that he sees me as the motherless little girl I really am. 

“That’s what I thought. Why don’t you put some clothes on and we can talk about this?” He suggests. I nod dumbly and pull his white shirt back on, then slip into his underwear. His boxers, the one time I tried them on, fell off me, but his tight briefs sit low on my hips and hold their place. When I sit down on the bed next to Edward, he pulls me onto his lap, settles me so I’m sideways, my head pressed to his shoulder.

“I take it that shooting the movie was hard today,” Edward says. I nod against him, mute.

“Bella, there are some things that we should talk about before we have sex,” Edward says. “You’re not a virgin, that’s fine. I hope you know that I don’t expect anything from you.

“Well, I expect one thing. I want you to tell me when you’re feeling uncomfortable. I’m falling in love with you, silly girl, and I want you to tell me how best to treat you so you can do the same.”

I pull away from him for a minute, processing what he just said.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I can’t hear my own voice over the ringing in my ears.

“I want us to move forward at our own pace. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do,” he continues.

“No. What did you mean, what you said before?” I push.

“Huh?”

“The… falling thing,” I whisper. Edward smiles his mouth watering crooked smile at me and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

“I’m falling in love with you, silly girl,” he repeats. I melt.

“Me too,” I say, and he kisses me. The kiss isn’t one of his erotically charged, tongue-sharing kisses, but it’s deep, and it’s meaningful, and it’s good. 

And for just this afternoon, the rest of the mess I’ve made can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Banner’s house on 23rd and Union in Seattle is my tribute to a notorious intersection in the Central District neighborhood. It’s also the bus stop I used when I worked in the CD— while I was working at that job, it was the site of a few shootings. It’s now the location for “local cleanup” which means you can’t find the best Ethiopian and Korean food there anymore.
> 
> Boeing Hill was the 1960s nickname for the Seattle neighborhood of Beacon Hill. Seattle is broken into quadrants; the Central District is in the center of the city, and Beacon Hill is a little further south. It was nicknamed “Boeing Hill” because most of its inhabitants worked at the Boeing plant in Tukwila.
> 
> Leonard Melfi was a notable playwright and actor, who frequented Caffe Cino. Caffe Cino was known for live productions of plays and dancing. For a fictional Warhol movie premier, it seemed reasonable to set Caffe Cino as the locale.
> 
> Though the birth control pill became commercially available in 1960, it wasn’t always so simple to get. Diaphragms are essentially cervical caps. In this story, a diaphragm would have been Bella’s best option, since the onus would have been on her to remember it and use it, but Mr. Banner still would have been able to oversee her access to the birth control and be able to control her reproductive health should he so choose. 
> 
> Rene Ricard was a poet, and the only person in Warhol’s film The Chelsea Girls who actually lived in the Hotel Chelsea at the time. He was only 19 or 20 at the time of filming.
> 
> “Yous” is Chicago slang for “you all” or “y’all.”
> 
> Andy Warhol’s responsibility for the formation and production of The Velvet Underground (as well as many of his other projects) is debatable. Yes, he was certainly involved— but Warhol saw artistic expression as a collaborative effort. The Velvet Underground was formed in January 1966, played in New York until about March, then moved to the West Coast for shows. Andy Warhol was likely the person to introduce Nico to Lou Reed, and he was certainly the impetus for the band to travel across the country to perform shows.
> 
> A note on historical accuracy: Bella meets Andy in December, 1965. When Bella introduces Rosalie to Andy’s circle, it is April, 1966. This wouldn’t have been possible, since Andy was on the West Coast with The Velvet Underground at this time. He (and the band) returned to New York in June 1966, an oversight on my part. I don’t think it’s too huge of a mistake, but it still bothers me that I didn’t clear this up earlier or correct it while editing early chapters.
> 
> Paul Morrissey, different than Edward’s friend Paul, was Warhol’s preferred cameraman.
> 
> Max Factor was a popular lipstick brand in the 1960s. I think they’re still around. Pink-a-Pades was a line of lipsticks from Max Factor. There are some pretty groovy ads of these lipsticks on Pinterest and Google Images.
> 
> Gerard is Gerard Malanga, Andy Warhol’s main collaborator during the early Factory years. Some people refer to him as Warhol’s assistant, but that’s a misnomer; he was heavily involved in all artistic output at the time, working as the main silkscreen supervisor/aide, acting in movies, and choreographing Warhol’s exhibition “Exploding Plastic Inevitable.” He’s still living; born in 1943, he would be two years younger than our Edward.
> 
> The term “A-head” refers to an amphetamine user, similar to the term “stoner.” Amphetamines, or speed, was very popular among the Warhol Superstars. It’s a drug I have some personal experience with, but I hope you won’t take that to mean that I encourage its usage. I don’t. Don’t do drugs. 
> 
> Greyhound Buses first came into being in Minnesota in 1914, and became widespread in 1929. They were considered a low-class way to travel in the 1960s, especially following a nationwide desegregation in 1964 after the bus strikes. Bella arrives in New York on a train, but it would have been cheaper for her to ride the bus for a few days before catching a train in the midwest to get all the way to New York City.
> 
> The Duwamish River (pronounced “doo-wah-mish”) is the lower 12 miles of the Green River. It empties into Elliot Bay (which is usually just called “the Sound” by locals, referencing the Puget Sound, which is pronounced “Pyoo-jet”) and it has been the subject of many public cleanups. It’s not that nice of an area because it’s surrounded by industrial plants; it’s often malodorous. 
> 
> Payment for the subway in 1966 was possible with a token or with exact change. 
> 
> The title refers to the final track on Simon and Garfunkel’s 1966 album Sounds of Silence. Give it a listen!
> 
> As always, let me know what you think!


	9. Mustang Sally

**July 16th, 1966**

**New York City**

**Edward**

I’d spent long enough thinking about Bella naked in my bed that I ought to have been thrilled to find her there, but the whole circumstance of it was too unwieldy for me to even get hard. Sure, I’d been fantasizing about having her since she let me photograph her topless, but it wasn’t erotic to go from caring for her like she was the little bird Alice warned me about to having her nude and emotionless, expecting me to just mount her like a horse. I’m not inexperienced, and I may not even be that good of a screw, but I don’t want a girl who’s unwilling. That would feel wrong.

And it did feel wrong to take a shower this morning and think of her lying in my bed, all exposed… but what’s a guy to do? I’ve let her set the pace, and she’s not been pushing anything forward. The heavy petting in the movie theater was great, but I hadn’t gotten lucky a few months before I met Bella and a dry spell can make a guy nuts. 

I’d finished developing the pictures I’d taken of her along with the pictures of our day in the Bronx when she came to the Factory but I couldn’t show them to her when she was clearly somewhere else. They’re incredible pictures; I can’t wait to hear what Bella thinks of my work. They’re the kind of photos that go places, if Bella would consent to me showing them somewhere. 

Last night, once I got her clothed in an undershirt, she finally calmed down and told me about what happened at the Hotel Chelsea. We’d been cuddling for a while, and I was keen to continue holding her, but she wanted a bit of breathing room if she was going to spill her guts to me.

“It was all a mess. It was Rosalie,” she said. She wanted to leave it at that, but I was losing my mind at how confused I was.

“You’ve got to tell me more of the story, Bella,” I begged. “What really happened?”

Bella was quiet for a long time. Finally, she took a deep breath and scooted a little closer to where I was sitting on the floor. 

“My mother left us in 1963,” she began. What that had to do with Rosalie and Andy, I had no clue, but before I could ask she continued.

“It was January. I’d been angry with her and she sent me to bed without supper and that night she came into my room and sang the song she used to sing when I was little… then in the morning she was gone. I haven’t heard from her since.”

I reached up to stroke her cheek. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a parent that way; I can’t imagine being a parent and up and leaving without warning, although I realize that I did indeed leave my parents without notice in Chicago back in ’59. Ma died and I wasn’t there to say goodbye. I never held her while she was sick or anything. One day I was in New York and she was alive and the next day a secretary at the Bronx Press-Review told me I had to call my father in Chicago, and I was half an orphan.

“I know this sounds kooky, believe me. But Rosalie did my makeup for filming and it was almost like I had my mother again. And she told me to cry for my scene, and I was crying about my mother, and then the next thing I knew Rosalie was in the room, in the scene, and she was slapping me…”

In that moment, I saw red. I rarely wished harm on people, but I wanted to kill Rosalie for laying a hand on Bella. She’s no cow, but she’s huge compared to Bella. It’s an absolutely unfair fight.

Bella could sense my agitation, and she smoothed the line between my eyebrows with her finger. She was trying to soothe me while I was supposed to be helping her calm down. The dynamic between us can flip so suddenly, but it never felt unacceptable or bad.

“I sound so childish,” Bella said in a small voice. “But I… I miss my mother. I don’t know where she is or if she’s safe or even alive. And the only reason I can think of for her leaving is because I was horrible to her over a goddamn Beach Boys concert!”

She was crying again, but she let me put my arms around her and comfort her. Inappropriate as it was, I wanted to sing “Help Me, Rhonda,” to Bella, but I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t think of anything more to do for her except invite her to come stay at my apartment for the next few days so she couldn’t be ambushed by Rosalie at her apartment.

I picked up her work dress from Mrs. Cope, who can be trusted to do a great job washing things in a pinch, only I don’t often take my laundry to her since I feel funny about an old lady messing with my drawers. 

Today I’m taking Bella all the way to her job in East Harlem. Before we leave, while Bella’s in the bathroom, I call my boss and ask if I can train a new guy to help cover for my absence in case Bella needs help finding a new place and moving. There’s no way I’m going to let her stay with Alice if she’s going to bring someone like Rosalie around. Mr. Molina, my boss, says I can bring the guy by and he’ll take a look at him, so I look through my address book and find Emmett McCarty’s number. Once I’ve shown him how I liked my pictures developed, I’ll be in good hands to just take pictures, hand off the film, and help Bella get settled should she decide she needs to go.

I get so caught up in teaching Emmett how we operate the darkroom at the Bronx Press-Review that I lose track of time. Emmett shows me some of the pictures he’s taken, and they’re decent enough. He shows me in real time how he edits them to make them pop; the edits of the pictures are so incredible that my jaw drops. I have to consider how to make Mr. Molina hire Emmett full time. 

I’m out of the darkroom, looking at two test prints in proper lighting with Emmett when I feel a tentative hug around my waist. I nearly jump a foot before I register the hour and realize Bella must’ve gotten tired of waiting for me at the pancake house and come to get me herself. I’m both ashamed and charmed-- ashamed that I let work take control of my time and charmed that she looked up the paper’s address and planned out a subway route to get here.

“Who’s this pretty lady?” Emmett asks goodnaturedly. I wrap an arm around Bella and kiss the top of her head.

“This is my girl, Bella,” I say.

“Yer main squeeze?” Emmett jibes. 

“The one and only,” I respond. “Bella, this is Emmett.”

“I recognize you from Max’s Kansas City, right?” Bella asks. “Where’s your accent from?”

Emmett smiles and pulls his cap from his head, resting it above his heart like he’s saluting a flag.

“Born and bred in County Leitrim, Ireland,” he announces proudly. Huh. I’d thought he was from Scotland. My father would think I’m a huge disgrace, being unable to distinguish between the two, what with him being British and all that. I ought to have some pride about my heritage but my father is such a miserable bastard that I scorn it all.

Bella smiles. “I’ve read James Joyce,” she says. 

“We don’t like him so much back home,” Emmett says. Bella blushes.

“I didn’t know,” she admits. Emmett smiles and ruffles her hair. I want to show him who’s boss, him touching my girl and all that, but he’s got a good 3-4 inches on me and I don’t want to get beaten up in front of Bella, so I settle for pulling her tightly against me.

“Our dislike of Joyce is our best kept secret. Say, Bella,” he says, “Do you have any sisters? A man is getting desperate for a beauty such as yourself…”

Bella blushes deeper and presses her face into my side.

“No sisters,” she says. 

“We’re getting out of here, Emmett,” I tell him. I show Bella the way out to the street, which she already knew from finding me at work. Things are a little awkward but not so bad as we ride the subway from The Bronx to Alphabet City, a commute that takes a bit more than an hour. We shift from standing to sitting, from the 5 to the L, and walk to Bella’s apartment. Tension is building like an electric current; we both know there’s still much unsaid between us, and I don’t know what talking about it will bring. I don’t really want to say my piece because I don’t want to think about any consequences. I want Bella to see me as a good guy, the kind of guy she wants to stick around. But I hold back much of who I am from her because I don’t want to face those parts of myself. I figure it’s kinder to end things now, since I’m discovering just how fragile she is, but my inherent selfishness keeps me from making the decision about what’s best for her.

I think back to Ma’s funeral last year, and how the doctor said she died from cancer. I don’t know anything about cancer. I’d be willing to bet she died of a broken heart. And then there’s my sister’s death on my hands as well. I’m a monster and I know it; my love breeds blood. My kiss is that of death.

And I know that there’s more bothering Bella than just her fight with Rosalie. It’s clearly painful, and I don’t want to dredge anything up. I wish more than anything that we could go back to a few days ago and I could tell her not to shoot the movie with Andy, to just stay home and mess around with me. 

Bella’s housemate Jane is lighting a new cigarette with the butt of her old one when Bella unlocks the door and lets us in. Alice is on the couch watching  _ Please Don’t Eat the Daisies _ but she jumps up when she sees Bella. She races over and wraps Bella into a hug that Bella doesn’t return. 

“How sapphic,” Jane remarks from her seat at the table. Alice lets go of Bella to glare at her.

“Go to hell, Jane,” she says. She pulls on Bella’s hand.

“Can we please go talk in my room? You didn’t come home last night, and Blue called all distraught…”

I scoff at this. 

“Bella, let’s just get your things and go.” I’m not going to stand around and listen to these women berate my girl. Bella looks at me with big eyes, like she doesn’t know what to do, which makes two of us. I’ve never had a steady before, so I don’t know if all this nonsense is part of the deal, but I get the sense that it isn’t and I’ve just walked into some special shit. I’m struck again with wonder that I actually want to stick it out and make things better for Bella; before we met I was always ready to cut out of anything at the earliest complication. It’s why I bounced around from job to job for a while when I first got to New York. I’m no good at thinking over things, since all I ever do is mess everything up, but for someone who hates to think as much as I do I spend a lot of time up in my own head.

“Bella, please,” Alice begs. “What’s going on? This isn’t like you.” That’s a relief.

Bella looks at me again and slumps her shoulders.

“I’m going to Edward’s for a bit,” she says. “Just to get away from it all.”

“Away from what?” Alice needles. I hear Jane groan behind me and fight the urge to give her a piece of my mind.

“If we’ve gotta do a heart to heart, let’s do it somewhere private, okay?” I say. It’s like Jane’s voice triggers a headache worse than the ones I’d get at the end of the days I spent laying asbestos in city apartments. 

Bella lets Alice pull her into Alice’s bedroom, and I follow before either can say boo. 

“You!” I shout when we get in, because sitting primly on Alice’s bed is Rosalie.

Rosalie looks sorry, to her credit. If she were a man, or had a man with her, I’d be swinging on sight, but she’s a skirt so I’m stuck standing there behind Bella. Bella is all tension, her back and shoulders as stiff as a rod.

“Stella,” Rosalie says, her voice full of concern. 

“Don’t call me that.” Bella’s voice is harsh but reasonably so. Alice steps between the two to referee. I feel like a trespasser here, witnessing this showdown between females, but I wouldn’t leave Bella alone here for a dollar. I think these girls forget just how young Bella is; I’d guess Alice is about my age, maybe a little younger, but Rosalie looks like she could be in her thirties.

Alice drops onto the bed and motions for Bella to sit down with her, but Bella stays where she is, firmly planted in front of me.

“Come on, Bella,” Alice says. “You can sit down in my chair if you won’t sit with me. I’m your friend, remember?”

Bella shakily sits down in the chair at Alice’s sewing table. I’m torn between looking at Alice and Rosalie and looking at Bella. I don’t know what goes on between girlfriends and I’m not sure I want to find out.

“Edward,” Rosalie addresses me. 

I shake my head. “I have nothing to say to you, and I’d suggest you keep what you want to say to me to yourself.” 

Rosalie shuts her mouth. Alice opens hers, but I hold my hand up to stop her.

“You too, Alice. You ambushed her. What do you think you’re doing?” I ask rhetorically. I don’t care. I just want to get Bella away from these harpies.

“I knew you would be good for Bella when we met. Be good for her now,” Alice begs. “Remind her that I’m her friend and I don’t know what I did wrong, or why she’s angry at me.”

“I’m in the room, Alice,” Bella snaps. I feel caught between them, even though I wouldn’t call Alice a friend of mine. Still, I feel a kind of kinship with her. It’s like I can sense that her intentions are genuine and good; no matter how misjudged she is by bringing Rosalie here unexpectedly, I feel like she wants what’s best for Bella, and we’re both trying to figure out what that is.

A silence falls over the four of us, and I feel more awkward than I felt before. I shift a bit on my feet, unsure where to stand or with whom to side. As the seconds tick by slowly and awkwardly, marked by the soft clicking of the Kit-Cat Klock on the wall, I get more irritated and angry at the injustice of it all. Why is Alice siding with Rosalie when she assaulted Bella? Does she even know what’s going on?

“Rosalie, want to tell us about what happened at the hotel?” I say. I can’t keep the hostility out of my voice. 

Bella doesn’t wait for Rosalie’s response. 

“She hit me.” Bella’s face is blank, emotionless. Ma raised me better than to hit women, but I want to hit Rosalie for hurting my girl. It’s hard to keep my anger in check with her right in front of me, having the nerve to look forlorn.

I’m expecting Alice to react similarly; of the three girls, she and Bella are closer in size than Bella and Rosalie. Instead, Alice shakes her head.

“Rosalie said that the two of you were acting, that you both went off script…”

Bella is incredulous. “You’ve shot movies with Andy, Alice,” she says. “You know there is no script. Rosalie was on speed, she told me to cry, I did, and she slapped me.”

Rosalie is softly crying, which seems to soften Bella but only further enrages me. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her eyes are red behind her huge glasses. “I thought it added to the cinema of it--”

“Fuck the cinema!” I shout. “You  _ hit _ Bella! You hit her! She’s just a girl and she was in a state to begin with and you went and slapped her--”

“Leave her alone, Edward,” Alice says. “There’s more to it, there has to be--”

“But there isn't!” No one can tell me otherwise. It’s as simple as that. “Bella, let’s just get your things and go for now.”

“But Bella--” 

“Shut up!” I interrupt. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?” In Alice’s chair, Bella’s shoulders are shaking with suppressed sobs. I go to her and put my hands on her shoulders, reassuring her that these chicks are nuts and we need to get out of there. 

Alice is shaking her head. “Bella, please don’t make me choose between my sisters. You and Rosalie are my family here.” 

Bella drops her head into her hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she moans.

“Nothing is wrong with you.” I’m kneading her shoulders a bit to work out the tension I feel there. “Let’s just go home.”

“Bella  _ is _ home,” Alice reminds me.

“This hellhole is not her home,” I argue. 

“She lives here,” Alice says stoutly.

“Not for much longer,” I retort.

“Bella, please, just hear me out--”

“Stop it!” Bella cries. “I love all of you, just let me find my own way!”

We’re silent at this outburst. I’m stunned; does she really love me? Is she just saying that for effect? What has gotten into her?

Bella takes a deep breath and stands up.

“I’m going to pack a bag and stay with Edward for a few days. Tomorrow night, you and Jasper may come for dinner and we can… talk. I’ll talk to you in my own time,” she says to Rosalie. With that, she turns on her heel and leaves. 

“Well…” Alice begins, then stops. What’s left to say after all that? Bella’s just invited herself into my home for days, and while she was always welcome it’s weird to hear her say it. On top of that, she’s invited Alice and Jasper over for dinner. I don’t really cook… maybe Bella is planning to make a meal for all of us? I’m a little disappointed that she wants to cook for her friends but not for just me, but that’s almost the least of my concerns.

“Do you know what happened to Bella in Seattle?” I ask Alice. She looks at me strangely.

“Bella’s told me some,” she says gently. 

“I do,” Rosalie says. I gawp at her. Bella told Rosalie about what went on that made her leave home? We lock eyes and I can see that Rosalie and Bella have a deeper friendship than I knew about. It’s not a comfortable thought, but I think Rosalie is hurting almost as much as Bella is.

Bella opens the door to Alice’s room.

“Let’s go.” She lets me carry her bag and hold her hand as we walk the seven blocks to my apartment. We pass Mrs. Cope on the stairs, who gives me a scolding look. Like with Bella, I don’t know what she wants from me. It’s a drag to feel like such a bum to everyone; it reminds me of when I was in Chicago for Ma’s funeral, how Pa was all over me about not going to college or following him into law. 

I set Bella’s bag down next to my record player. I stick my hands in my pockets, all awkward. I ought to have a couch for us to sit on, but all I’ve got in the space that’s not my bedroom is a desk with my typewriter, my wooden desk chair, and my mostly empty shelves. When I eat a real dinner, which I rarely do, I eat at the desk. I’ve been wanting a television but I never got around to buying one. I can see how small my life was before I met Bella, and it’s beyond crazy to me that it feels so full after knowing her for only three and a half weeks. 

“So…” I begin. I don’t know what to say. I’m hopeful that Bella’s not going to break things off with me since she brought such a big bag of clothes, but there’s something going on with her that she’s got to figure out before things can feel close to normal again.  _ What even is normal?  _ I wonder. 

She told me yesterday that she didn’t know what she wanted. How in the world am I supposed to work around that? I’m not even sure I know what I want, beyond being with her…

Bella is silent. She slides down the wall to sit against the floor, knees tented and close to her chest. If she didn’t look so forlorn, she’d be the picture of style in her pinstripe pants and tight pink shirt. She always looks cute, and it makes me feel a little softer towards her, less frustrated.

“I think I need to tell you why I really left Seattle,” Bella says, her eyes downcast. 

I nod. Though we fit together so well, there’s clearly something more, something deeper to what seems to bind us to one another. I’d never believed in instant, immediate connection, but the more time we spend together the more I believe it to be true; that Bella and I do something for each other that can’t be done alone. If I can tell her about my sister and she can tell me about this trouble of hers… I just don’t know what could possibly come next, if it’ll be great or terrible.

“I had an affair with my teacher,” Bella continues. “I slept with him. I thought we were in love, and I threw away my life to be with him.”

“You didn’t throw your life away,” I interrupt. Bella shakes her head sadly.

“I didn’t apply to college. I finished high school, and I made good grades, but I didn’t put in any applications because I thought we were going to move to New York together and get married. But my father…”

She pauses. 

“I’d left the laundry to the last minute and my father decided to take it to the laundromat. And in my closet he found some underwear Mr. Banner gave me as a gift. There was… blood on them. I wasn’t always so comfortable, and Mr. Banner said I could be frigid during intercourse, and I guess I’d been scared that day and… Father looked around in my room and found my diaphragm on my nightstand. Mr. Banner usually insisted I keep it at his house but it was the end of summer and he told me I was old enough to keep it at home…”

She has tears dripping down her face. 

“My father insisted that Mr. Banner ruined me, and that I could never get back what I’d lost. He said I’d been shamed and that I wasn’t his little girl anymore. He called Mr. Banner and yelled at him on the phone, told him to never speak to me again, told him that I was only a child and that he’d never see me again. I had no marriage prospects and no college to attend… Father sent me to work for one of the other policemen in his precinct as a housekeeper, but the officer gave the money I earned to my father. I was a prisoner in my own home. I waited for weeks until he trusted me before sneaking out of my window and walking to Mr. Banner’s house.

“But Mr. Banner wouldn’t let me into his house. He was engaged to be married, and his fiancée was there. He told me that our romance was all in my head and he never loved me. Everything I’d thought about the future was wrong, and I’d wrecked it all.”

Bella wipes at her eyes. I pass her my handkerchief, which she accepts.

“Before my seventeenth birthday, I took some money from Father’s pocketbook and wrote a note. I packed only what I could fit in one bag. I decided I was going to come to New York and start over. I could be a virgin again. I could pretend I hadn’t driven away my mother. But in the end, all I could do was become myself again.”

It hits a little too close to home, what she’s saying. I’d come to New York because I couldn’t live with myself in Chicago. I’d made a mess of everything, too. But I also couldn’t let Bella give herself all the blame for what happened to her back home.

“Bella…” I begin. I don’t know how to go about comforting her, but I can’t stay silent. “I don’t think you did anything wrong.”

“What?” She asks. She looks at me like I’ve got three heads. I shrug.

“With your mom. I mean, you had an argument. I’ve had arguments with my mother. I did way worse things to my mother and she didn’t just… up and vanish. People can have fights and still stick around.”

Bella rubs her eyes like she’s got a headache.

“You don’t understand, Edward. I said horrible, terrible things. Unforgivable things.”

“Like what?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious. I never said anything too bad to Ma but with my Pa it’s a different story. I’ve yelled at him that I wished he died in the Pacific, that I would kill him if I could, that he was a rat bastard. Sure, he might have beaten me or yelled things like that back to me, that I was a mistake and a disappointment, that he’d kill me as soon as Ma died, but he never abandoned me. I have his number, and although he doesn’t like me, he’d take my call if I placed it.

“I told her that she was the worst mother in the world. That she was killing me, that she was the cause of my suffering… I told her I hated her and that I wished she was dead.”

I scoot a little closer to her.

“Bella, my sister said that stuff to my Ma before she died.” I fight the lump in my throat that comes when I think of my sister because I think she needs to hear this. “That’s just… girl stuff. Girls say nasty stuff to their moms. Some get whipped for their mouths, but a good mother would never leave her kid just because the kid says they wish she was dead.”

Bella doesn’t say anything, so I continue.

“And… with your teacher. How old were you, fourteen? Fifteen? You’d just lost your mom, and some older guy is there like he’s going to take care of you. Who wouldn’t want to be with someone who could make all the hurt go away?”

Bella’s shoulders slump. “I was fifteen,” she whispers.

“Fifteen year olds don’t make great decisions,” I say, almost unwillingly. Because the harder I think about it, the more sure I am that what Bella feels isn’t her fault. “To me, it sounds like this teacher saw a sad student and took advantage of you.”

“But I chose to sleep with him,” she argues.

“But he was wrong to make sleeping with him an option.”

Bella loses all the fight in her eyes. I open my arms out to her and she crawls into them, nestling into my chest. I’m still dreading saying my piece, but I know I have to… just maybe not today.

“I haven’t spoken to my father in months,” Bella confesses to my chest, her voice muffled by my shirt. I kiss her soft head and suck in a deep breath of her sweet smelling hair. 

“I haven’t talked to mine in over a year,” I admit. Bella pulls away from me to study my face.

“Why not?” She asks. I want to shrug but I know exactly why not, and I don’t want to lie to her.

“We don’t see eye to eye,” I say at last. “I don’t think he even wants to hear from me.”

Bella scoffs at this. 

“Yes, he does,” she insists. “You told me your mother died. Aren’t you all he has left?”

_ Yes _ , I want to tell her,  _ and that’s my own fault _ . But I can’t talk about Maggie. Not yet.

“Would you understand it if I said that there’s an ocean between us? My father and me?” I ask. “The waters are a little too deep.” I’m getting lost in my own metaphor. “I can’t make it across.”

Bella hums thoughtfully. “I trust you,” she says. “And I understand if it’s too much to think about tonight. It’s been a long day.” 

We let that sit there for a minute. We’re both tired. And hungry, if the rumble from Bella’s stomach is any indication. Without needing to talk about it, we get up to head out and hunt for some supper.

There’s a pizzeria around the corner with two slices for a quarter. Bella doesn’t fuss or anything when I pay for three slices and two bottles of Coke. I catch Bella slip a coin or two into the tip jar on the counter while I’m grabbing fistfuls of napkins, then we head over to the park to eat.

It’s nice, sitting out in the hot evening. Usually the park is full of groups of dirty individuals at night, talking and playing loud music and smoking nasty substances, but tonight it’s calm enough. Earlier in the week someone broke into the fire hydrant at the corner of the park, so police activity was ramped up for a bit. I assume the tranquility of the evening has something to do with fear of extra patrols. 

Bella and I eat in silence. I like how much I learn about her through meals shared, even if we’re not talking. She likes pepper flakes on her pizza; she shook practically half the container onto her slice. She’s generous; she lets me eat most of the slice I figured we’d split, but asks for the crust. Bella chews the crust adorably. Andy could make a movie about how perfectly this girl puts down a meal. I can see no flaw in the set of her teeth, each pearly white and knife sharp. Though her body is soft like satin, her teeth are carved like statues from marble.

When we finish our meal, we gaze at each other in silence. The ambiance of the park is eerie in twilight, with the sun setting later in summer. The heat blankets everything; it’s like we’re inside a mouth in the humidity. Mercifully, tonight the air in the park feels like an oasis from the stench of smog and general New York scumminess. I could sit here forever and just look at my girl, my girl who maybe loves me. I feel my heart pinch at the thought that this won’t last forever, but tonight I have a sliver of hope that it just might.

Hand in hand, we return to my apartment, Bella changes into her nightgown in the bathroom and I tell her I’ll join her in bed after I’ve had a smoke. I don’t know what comes over me, but I don’t want to smoke in my apartment at the moment, so I head downstairs to the stoop. I break into my new pack of Winstons and finish my cigarette before deciding I want another. 

Smoking is meditative, and I think about all the times I could’ve called my mother but didn’t. I talked to her in the five and a half years between when I left Chicago and her death, but I certainly didn’t talk to her as much as I should have. I think of all the time I wasted looking at train ticket prices to get home, only to choose to spend my money on booze or a new camera lens or some nifty gadget that I never needed. I had nearly six years where I had my Ma but I wouldn’t let myself have her. It’s a thought that stabs me right in the gut, makes me hate myself, makes me want to puke. I don’t know why I wouldn’t let myself call her. I know why I felt I had to leave, but I don’t know why I couldn’t go back. Chicago suddenly doesn’t seem so far away, nor do my memories.

I’m done with my second cigarette; I barely smoked it, just endlessly scraped my thumb over the filter to ash it like I do when I’m nervous. My insides itch. I want to scream to fill the void that’s opening inside me, to crawl into the gap of Chaos. I want to buy a bus ticket to Chicago. I want my Ma.

Without thinking, I deposit a dime in the payphone around the corner. As I drop in the dime, I realize that I’ve been walking without actively choosing to. I’ve lost track of time and space; the only reason I know I’m still by my building is because of my triangulation to the park and other local businesses that I’m familiar with. I’m dialing the number I know without having to think about it, and the phone rings for a full minute before I hear the receiver pick up with a click.

“Hello?”

“Pa?” I say. I’m unsure of myself, although I know this phone number like I know my own name.

“Who is this?” I don’t recognize the voice on the other line. The accent is similar to my father’s; it’s identical, in fact. But the voice is softer, gentler almost. 

“Who are you?” I ask before I can get a grip on my manners. I ought to say yes, that I am Edward, but I don’t.

“I’m Carlisle Cullen. Who are you, and why are you trying to contact my father?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 out of 15— only 6 chapters to go! It really feels like we’re in the home stretch. I love writing this story and I feel excited to share it with you. 
> 
> James Joyce had a love/hate relationship with Ireland. Most Irish poets of his day wrote and talked about their frustrations with their homeland while living elsewhere, leaving the remaining inhabitants of Ireland to feel slighted and like they bred talent only for talent to leave.
> 
> Please Don’t Eat the Daisies was a sitcom that ran from 1965-1967. It was an upbeat show about a family where the housewife was a little wacky. It was set in upstate New York.
> 
> “A steady” is 60s slang for a boyfriend or girlfriend. It’s a nice gender neutral term, don’t you think?
> 
> “A skirt” was 60s slang meaning “woman.” Basically Edward’s calling Rosalie a broad.
> 
> Kit-Cat Klocks were first manufactured in 1932. They’re clocks in the shape of cartoon cats, and what makes them interesting is that their pupils and tails move as the seconds tick by. Kit-Cat clocks were kitchen staples, but Alice is unique and has one in her bedroom. Original Kit-Cat clocks had only two paws and a rounder design and came in black and red. You can get them in a bunch of colors now, but Alice’s is the original black.
> 
> Diaphragms are a form of birth control. They were common before the Pill became more easily accessible and are still in use today. Cervical caps, the basis for diaphragms are one of the oldest forms of birth control in existence.
> 
> You can get slices of pizza in New York for a dollar these days, but back in the 1960s it would have been even cheaper. I don’t have exact numbers, but a quarter for two slices is probably right in the middle of the range of pizza prices.
> 
> Cliffhanger! Let me know what you think! 
> 
> As always, I'm more than happy to answer any questions you might have. Next chapter is going to be a doozy, so forgive me if it takes a little longer to post it. I'm about 85% done with it so far...


	10. Just Let Me Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains description of an abusive marriage and infant death. It's not overly graphic but I'd rather leave a warning for sensitive topics than leave it out.

**July 17, 1966**

**New York City**

**Bella**

The bright light of morning shines through Edward’s bedroom window almost urgently. I steep myself in the light before stretching and rolling over to pull Edward to me for a morning cuddle, only to find the bed empty. In fact, I can’t remember Edward coming to bed last night. I went to lie down while he went out for a smoke, even though he could have had his cigarette in the kitchen or bathroom or even in bed with me… and now here I am, awake in the morning. Strange. 

I do my day off morning ritual of showering in water so hot I can barely stand it. When I’m lobster red and all scrubbed with Edward’s soap, I wipe off his mirror and line my face up close to it to inspect my pores. It’s a bad habit, to pop pimples as I do, but I can’t help myself.  _ You choose not to help yourself, _ Rosalie would say in response. Thinking about her makes my stomach curl in on itself, but I might just be hungry.

I wrap my hair in a towel and go back to Edward’s room. I pull my clothes out of my bag and select a green dress with a white collar that used to belong to Bree. Alice tailored it to fit me and switched out the plain buttons for her stash of mother of pearls. I feel so fine as I brush and braid my hair into one long queue. 

As I put the finishing touches in my braid, I hear the door to the apartment slam open. Immediately I’m on edge; I’ve always heard it’s important to arm yourself against burglars, especially in big cities, but Edward’s apartment on the twelfth floor hardly seems like an easy target. His room has no baseball bat or gun with which I can arm myself. I’ve never felt smaller.

Almost instantly the door to Edward’s room slams open, and I let out a little shriek of fear even as I see that it’s Edward at the door. I'm not afraid of Edward but his expression is terrifying. I’ve never seen such violent hate in my life, even when my father was on the phone threatening Mr. Banner. I want to rush to Edward and comfort him, but I can’t help feeling a little uneasy about approaching. What in the world brought this on?

Before I can make a move towards or away from Edward, he’s ripping open the drawers of his dresser and grabbing items. 

“Edward,” I say, alarmed at this drastic shift in the man I thought I knew, “what is going on?”

He doesn’t look at me, just continues to pull things out of his drawers, tossing them in a messy pile on the floor. I approach him from where I’ve been sitting on the bed and gently lay a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs me off with such a force I recoil like I’ve been pushed.

“Edward!”

“What, Bella!” He turns around with rage in his eyes. His face is red with emotion, and as he pants and seethes in my face I smell alcohol on his breath. 

“Edward, you’re scaring me,” I say. I hate how small my voice sounds, but I can’t help it. I feel as out of place as I’ve ever felt. Part of me longs for the man who holds me and kisses me so tenderly, but a bigger part of me is so confounded by this behavior that I want to sit down and have a talk like grown ups. For the first time with Edward, I feel that I am the older of the two of us.

He doesn’t even respond to me, just turns back and starts going through another drawer. The pile of clothes on the floor grows until it looks like it ought to clothe him for a week, if he wanted to only wear clothes for recreation. Is he going on a trip?

“Let me help you,” I try instead. Edward ignores what I say but accepts my offer of my empty pack, stuffing his clothing into the small leather case. He storms from the room and I hear him rummaging around in his desk.

“Edward, please tell me what’s going on,” I beg as I follow him into the living space. He’s grabbing papers at random and folding them carelessly into the bag-- my bag. He ignores me.

“Please let me help you,” I beg again. I reach for him and he flinches away. I get a better look at his face; he’s distraught and angry and-- could it be-- confused? I want so badly to help him but I feel like I’m on Mars with this mood shift.

I grab his arm and try to stroke it in comfort but his face folds in on itself at my touch. 

“Edward, please,” I say. My voice sounds nearly hysterical. 

All at once, I feel transported back to Seattle, experiencing a parallel of what could have happened when my mother left. I imagine Edward is my mother, leaving me with no explanation. I want to-- no, I  _ need  _ to-- prevent it. I fight the urge to scream at my mother, at Edward, and to physically hold him back. I want to tie him down to this place and make him make sense of it all.

“Call my work,” he says gruffly. “Tell them I’m done.” 

“What?” I exclaim. “You love your job.”

“I’m a fraud, Bella,” he says. “I’m done. I’m gone. I’m leaving. This is the last you’ll see of me.”

I drop to my knees, stunned. He tosses his keys out of his pocket by the desk; I’m in total shock as Edward finishes his digging through his things, fastens the bag shut and leaves the apartment. I am immobile for what feels like hours before the crying sets in.

It’s not crying, really. It’s a keening, a wailing, a cry that is only heard when one loses everything. I can’t control it; it’s like I’m above my own body, looking down on the room that’s been stormed, looking at my life torn apart, looking at myself, and I can hear the sound come from outside of me. But it’s not outside me. It’s in me, it’s from me, and it’s all I can do not to fall apart.

Or perhaps I am falling apart. I hear and feel thumping from the floor below as I am stuck in this strange state of breathing but my breath is sound. Edward mentioned the neighbors below him would knock on their ceiling when he played records too loud. Am I so loud that I’m causing this? I can’t tell. I’m lost and I’m aching, harder so at the thought of  _ his _ name. How could someone who saved me, who cared for me, who said he was falling in love with me just up and leave? 

There is only one explanation: that I am no good. That my presence drives people insane. I drove my mother to leave. I drove Mr. Banner to bad behavior. I drove my father crazy. I drove Rosalie to violence. And I drove Edward to leave the life he built for himself. I can’t live with myself like this.

Time passes, or it doesn’t. I’m unaware of everything but this whirlpool of despair and the weeping, my face hot and stinging like it’s infected. But there’s pounding at the door, and then the door is open, and there’s a boy in front of me, as bewildered as I am. Perhaps he’s not a boy-- he could almost be a man. He’s taller than Edward-- I wince at the thought-- and his skin is dark. His hair is long and black, longer than Jasper’s hair, perhaps even as long as Rosalie, but it’s straight and smooth, pulled into a low queue. He’s an Indian, I realize; I grew up on Duwamish land out in the northwest, but it’s likely he’s not Duwamish, but something else… I’m not sure, and it seems inappropriate to ask. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to ask anything. I can’t control my breathing, and it’s making my vision flicker.

“Breathe,” I hear him say just as I feel like I’m going to topple over. He’s beside me with a hand on my arm, easing me down so I’m lying on my side. He gently arranges my arm so it’s pillowing my head and pushes my knees towards my chest. I feel like a baby, but it’s calming. I’m still crying but the noise is softer now, whimpers and little kittenish moans. I must look like such a mess. I’d bet my face is red enough my birthmark isn’t even distinguishable. 

“Keep breathing,” he says. “I live downstairs. I’m Jacob. Do you need an ambulance?”

I can’t really answer him. I am paralyzed by both grief and overexertion. I think I shake my head enough to give him indication that I don’t need a doctor.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Jacob asks. His voice is smooth and deep. I can’t appreciate it for the saving grace it is right now, and I can hardly think. 

“Rosalie,” I say hoarsely. “Call Rosalie.”

Jacob shuffles to the phone on his knees; he’s been sitting on the floor to be closer to my level. He rifles through Edward’s address book for a second before I tell him to call the Hotel Chelsea and ask for Rosalie King’s room. 

He dials the operator, and is put on to Rosalie’s room before I can think better of it. I both know and don’t know why my instincts told me to call Rosalie; although we’re fighting, she’s the first person I’d turn to in an emergency. She’ll know what to do.

Jacob returns to my side after speaking with Rosalie and talks to pass the time. He tries asking about me and my situation, but when I can’t respond he tells me about growing up in Canada and moving to New York City with his father after an accident killed his mother some years ago. His older sisters are married and still living across the border; he’s in high school still, a student at PS 19 during the day and working as a fry cook at a malt shop at night. His father works as an ambulance driver. They share a one bedroom apartment but first lived in public housing when they moved from Toronto. 

Slowly, glacially, I feel the tension ease out of my shoulders at Jacob’s voice. I listen to him talk about the dogs he used to keep when he lived in Canada; huge animals that howled and chased away coyotes from the property. I am losing the fight to stay angry waging inside of me and succumbing to the sadness. I’m gulping back sobs even though I’m out of tears, my eyes tight against the ache of overuse. I sit up and Jacob fetches me a glass of water, which I suck down as Rosalie bursts through the door.

“You can go now,” she announces. “I’ve got this.”

I thank Jacob weakly as he heads to the door. He stops before leaving and takes one last look at me.

“You can come by if you need anything, you know,” he says kindly. “I live just below. Unit 1108.”

Then he turns and is out the door. Rosalie is by my side, pulling me up from the floor. She plants me in Edward’s desk chair and listens as I explain what happened this morning, which I can only  _ just _ do.

“What an asshole!” She exclaims. “We’re not letting him get away with that. Fuck no. Fuck men!”

I’m totally shocked by her language. It’s rare that I’m around people who use such words, and to hear someone older than me use them is unsettling. I start to giggle hysterically, but stop at Rosalie’s serious look.

“I mean it, Bella. We’re going to find that man and kill him. Nobody gets to treat you like that.”

“ _ Kill _ him?!” I can’t believe my ears. “Rosalie, he didn’t do anything wrong. He just… left me. He doesn’t want to be around me, because I’m awful.” 

Rosalie gives me a pointed look. “Stella. Leaving you this way  _ is _ wrong. You’re not awful. You’re a star. Andy wanted to put you in a movie. Don’t ever forget that. Believe you me, when this movie comes out your scene will be unforgettable.”

“Our scene,” I remind her absently. I rub my cheek blankly and Rosalie gets my drift.

“I’m so sorry for hitting you, Bella,” Rosalie says. “I was wrong. I get jealous of you sometimes, you know.”

I scoff.  _ Rosalie _ jealous of  _ me? _ I’m just plain old Bella. She’s bodacious, stylish, a little outrageous  _ Rosalie. _ She’s the star out of the two of us.

“I do,” she insists. “I never told you why I came to New York. Let me tell you now.

“I was in pageants, as a little girl,” she begins. “Santee is just about the smallest little podunk town you could ever think of. Mama made sure I got to see real life, driving me out to pageants in all the nearby counties. I did well. I had gentleman suitors, sure, but none better than the son of the Mayor of Santee, Royce King Jr.

“Mama died when I was seventeen., and she told me that the only thing I ever had to do to make her proud was win a real crown and make it out of Santee. When I was 18, I got the invitation to compete in Miss South Carolina. I took the stage by storm. I did my own makeup, I styled my own hair pieces… I’d won everything. Every qualifier, every pageant, every opportunity to express myself and compete. I could’ve gone to Miss America but I threw it all away the moment Royce proposed.”

Rosalie is breathing funny, shallow but somehow still panting. She’s looking at me through her glasses, which I know to have an incredibly strong prescription. For someone so obsessed with looks and image, she’s nearly blind without her glasses. Although we make eye contact, it feels like she’s looking through me, lost in a trance.

“I accepted his proposal. Our wedding was the talk of the county. I thanked every last guest in person and hand wrote every thank you card. I was the perfect housewife to him and he repaid me by turning into a drunk.

“I lived to please him, but he didn’t want my obedience. He wanted to fight. I knew that having a baby wouldn’t change anything, but dammit, I wanted one. I’d lost my Mama, but I could be a mother… It just seemed like a switch. I made a deal with him: that he could treat me however, he could yell and scream and beat me with a belt and drink himself silly if he gave me a baby. I’d never bother him about missing him, or mention the perfume I smelled on him, or complain about the infections… I just wanted one baby.”

She stops talking for a minute, and looks up out the window. She plays with the ends of her hair, a nervous behavior, until she calms down enough to look back at me.

“I  _ worked _ for that baby. I sucked and fucked him whenever he pleased until I got pregnant, and kept at it even when I was so sick I could hardly see straight. When I spent a weekend throwing up so much it made my eyes and skin turn red, Royce took me to the doctor. 

“I got approved for thalidomide injections and that changed everything. I was myself again. The doctor told me I didn’t need to gain much more than ten pounds, and I was doing good until the last bit. I turned into a balloon, Royce said. I was dizzy and my headache never went away, no matter how much aspirin I took. I’d been so small and beautiful all throughout pregnancy, and then there I was at the end looking like a watermelon.

“The doctor said I almost died during delivery. The day I gave birth I was throwing up so bad I was crawling on the floor of my house, waiting for Royce to get home and take me to the hospital. I pushed for hours and needed a transfusion and I felt the doctor cut me and use forceps to drag my son out. I was screaming and they sedated me and wouldn’t let me hold my son.

“When I finally came to a few hours later, I demanded to hold him but the doctor said there was something wrong with him. I didn’t care. I just wanted my baby. Finally a nurse took pity on me-- or maybe I was just too much of a nuisance, begging anyone who heard me to just bring me my damn baby-- and she brought him into the room. My son. My own perfect son.”

Rose pauses again, overcome with emotion. A few tears leak out of her eyes and track blue lines down her cheeks that she doesn’t wipe away. 

“His face was misshapen. His little lip was split up to his little nose and just looking at him you knew he couldn’t nurse like that. When I held him, I could feel that his arms just weren’t there. He was so small and I knew how much he needed me. They told me to send him to a home and I told them I would bring hellfire on the hospital if anyone ever said anything like that to me again.

“Royce didn’t want him. Wouldn’t look at him. Called his own son a monster. But he made good on his promise to let me have my baby, and no one could tell me that my baby wasn’t the most perfect baby on God’s green earth. If you’d seen him, you’d know that there wasn’t a more perfect soul. My sweet son, my own little Gregory.”

Again, Rose pauses. There’s nothing to say to her. All I can do is listen and feel the pain emanating from her.

“He cried nonstop. He couldn’t help it. It was so hard for him to eat and he only wanted to sleep in my arms. But after two days at home he fell asleep in the afternoon like an angel. I needed to clean and prepare dinner for Royce, which I did, but I fell asleep on the couch when I set down for a second. And then I was being shaken awake by Royce, telling me the roast was burnt.

“It turned out I’d slept for hours and Gregory didn’t cry once. I ran to check on him in his bassinet and he was on his belly; Royce must’ve turned him, since I always put him to sleep on his back… I flipped him over and he was cold and blue. I screamed for Royce to come help me but he wouldn’t come, and I was screaming and screaming and he finally came but I couldn’t stop screaming and holding my sweet dead baby and Royce was saying how the roast was burnt and what were we going to eat for dinner…

“There I was, a mother with no baby. I  _ worked _ for my baby. I labored for hours and hours  _ all by myself. _ I  _ hurt _ for my baby, I broke my body and ruined my skin and my breasts to make him and he was broken but he was so perfect and I loved him, but now I don’t get to have him? I  _ worked so hard _ to have my son and my husband only wanted a fresh dinner. It made no sense.

“The doctor said that sometimes babies just die and we don’t know why. When Gregory died, he killed my heart, and without a heart I had no reason to be married anymore.”

Rose is crying now, but she pulls herself together. 

“So the day we buried my son, I cried all the tears I had in my body. And then… I did something. I won’t say what. But you know that I’m a widow.” 

She looks at me pointedly.

I’m in shock. I want to reach out to her and comfort her, but I can’t. There’s nothing I could say to make any impact on her.

“When we buried my husband, I cashed in his life insurance and sold his truck and moved all his finances that were left to me, his widow, into my name. And I moved to New York to become a new person. Someone who wasn’t a mother to a dead baby. It’s just… easier, simpler, to pretend I never had him at all.”

I let the last statement just hang in the air. There’s too much to say, too much present with us to actually say anything. 

“And you, Stella,” Rosalie says. “You’re on your way. You don’t have a past like mine. You can have anything you want, in ways that I can’t.”

Rosalie is a mother without a child and in some ways I’m a child without a mother. Still, we both know we can’t be balm for the soul we each need. Our losses are too different, even though they’re similar in nature. For now, knowing each other as intimately as we do is enough. I rest my head in my hands and feel Rosalie wrap her arms around me and stroke my back.

“Now, no sane man would leave like he left. We’re going to find him. Where does he work?”

We take the subway to the Bronx and walk to the building of the Bronx Press-Review without any discussion of a plan. Rosalie is absolutely in charge; at the entrance of the building, she hoists up the straps of her brassiere, adjusting the lay of her cleavage in her v-neck blouse. The blue of her outfit today is pastel aqua, which makes her tan skin and platinum hair glow. She looks like a curvier Marilyn Monroe. She’s the kind of woman you want to please.

The girls at the reception desk on the second floor point us to the darkroom when Rosalie asks for Edward’s boss. The newsroom is full of desks with typewriters situated on them; each desk has a telephone and an ashtray. The air is thick with smoke which does nothing to mask the odor of ink coming up from the printing room two floors below us in the basement. The occupied desks host men, all wearing disheveled suits, each holding the phones to their ears with their shoulders, cigarettes dangling from the corners of their mouths. I hear one of the men sitting at a typing desk say “hubba, hubba,” as we walk to the back corner to the door marked as the entrance to the darkroom. 

Rosalie throws the door open to the darkroom, light exposure be damned, but there’s a thick black curtain that prevents the light of the newsroom from getting in. I’m close behind Rosalie, and in the red of the single bulb of safelight I can see that we’re in a tiny space not unlike a closet made entirely of the thick curtain, all precautious of the developing film behind the fabric wall. 

Rosalie pokes her head through the curtain and I hear her call out to the men working inside.

“If someone in here who knows an Edward who takes photographs for this paper isn’t out here talking to me in five seconds, God help me, I will burn this building to the ground!”

She rips her head back and closes the door to the darkroom. I’m cringing at her choice of words and her approach to problem solving.

“That was… not great, Rosalie,” I say.

“It worked, didn’t it?” She says as the door opens and Emmett steps out. 

“Bella!” He greets me. I feel more than see Rosalie melt a little at his accent.

“Did Edward say anything about going on a trip somewhere?” I ask. “He was upset this morning, then he left and I don’t know where he went.”

“No, I couldn’t tell you that he said anything of the sort,” Emmett says thoughtfully. “Although I remember  _ you _ telling me you didn’t have any sisters. Who’ve you brought along with you?”

“I’m Rosalie,” she says, her voice almost soft. Emmett takes her hand and gently raises it to his lips to kiss it. Rosalie blushes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosalie. My name is Emmett. I’m Edward’s assistant here at the paper.”

I ask for directions to Edward’s desk and leave Emmett and Rosalie to talk. His desk doesn’t have a typewriter although it does have a phone. The Bronx Public Phonebook, the Manhattan Public Phonebook, and the New York Borough Directory sit in a stack on his desk next to his nameplate: E. Masen, Jr.  _ Junior _ , I think. I didn’t know he was named for his father.

Thinking about Edward’s father makes me think about the little I know of his childhood. He lived in Chicago, he said. His mother died but he never said anything about his father… 

In Edward’s desk drawer, there is a small legal pad and a personal phonebook. It’s thinner than the phonebook he keeps at his apartment and I flip through it, just to see what’s there. Out of curiosity, I linger in the ‘M’ section, although I don’t see any entries listed as “Masen.” In the second drawer down there is a torn out section of a phonebook with an area code I don’t recognize. I know 212 and 206, for Manhattan and Washington, respectively… but 217 is unfamiliar. I look again through Edward’s personal phonebook and see an entry in the ‘M’ section that didn’t stand out to me before: ‘E.M.’ with an area code of 217. Could this be Edward’s father in Chicago?

I write down the number on the yellow legal pad and tear the page off. I fold it up and slip it into my pocket before rejoining Rosalie and Emmett by the darkroom.

“So you’ll come?” Rosalie is asking. 

“Yes, gladly,” Emmett says. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Bella!” Emmett greets me again, his cheeks flushed at the apples. “Sweet Rosalie here was just inviting me to a show she’s performing tonight at Gerdes Folk City. Will you be there?”

“What kind of show?” I ask, apprehensive. The last (and only) show of Rosalie’s I attended was more… revealing than I’d been expecting.

“It’s a burlesque, Bella,” Rosalie says. “It’s how I make my living. Until Andy pays me to be his number one Superstar, that is.”

I feel too far gone, too overwhelmed with the surprises of the day to react to this. 

“I guess I’ll be there,” I say. “I have nowhere else to be.”

“So… about Edward,” Emmett starts. It shakes me from my reverie. 

“Did Rosalie tell you all that’s going on?” I ask. Rosalie waggles her hand, noncommittal. 

“She said he’d pulled a runner,” Emmett says. “Said you were looking for him.”

“He told me to tell his boss he’s done here. I don’t know where he’s going, or why, or anything. He just came home this morning after drinking and grabbed his things like a madman.”

Emmett looks thoughtful and disappointed at once. “Well… I’d not rush to tell our boss that he’s gone for good. I’ve only just got this job, and Edward leaving means I’ll be ousted.”

Rosalie frowns at this, but I have an idea. 

“If I can use a typewriter, I’ll write a note to your boss from Edward about… a family emergency, say. I’ll just write that he needs to be away for a week or so and for you to cover his position for him. If you can, that is,” I say. Hopefully this will get Edward a pass for being gone and get me enough time to get in touch with him to find out what went wrong and maybe bring him back to me. 

I try not to think about Edward leaving because he’s realized I’m no good for him as I surreptitiously type the note on a typewriter Emmett’s staked out for me. He and Rosalie are chatting, keeping watch for Mr. Molina, Edward’s boss. I finish the note and scratch out what I hope is a good imitation of Edward’s signature. I just finish folding the note in half when Emmett greets Mr. Molina in an overly loud voice to signal me that he’s here.

“Sir, I’m Edward Masen’s… friend,” I say as I hand him the forged note. “He had to leave this morning for home. He wanted me to bring you this note.”

Mr. Molina takes the note and skims it. He frowns and folds it into quarters.

“He leave a forwarding number or address?” Mr. Molina asks.

“Umm… yes, but I forgot that at home. May I call you to relay it to you?” I ask as sweetly as I can. 

Mr. Molina rubs a hand over his eyes. “Yes, sure, whatever. Just make sure he gets in touch with me by Wednesday if he still wants his job.”

“I can do that, sir,” I promise. I hope I’ll make good on it.

I leave Rosalie at the office talking to Emmett to head back to Manhattan alone. I want to try phoning the number from Edward’s phone, where I’ll have privacy. Well, as much privacy as a party line allows; either way, it’s better than having Jane breathing down my neck about using the phone or Bree begging me to hang up so she can wait on a call. 

I stop at my shared apartment before I go to Edward’s to make the call. I’m in good luck-- Alice is in, and she shares a beer with me as I tell her about the craziness of the morning. She coos over my teary eyes and rubs my hand as I tell her about Edward leaving. 

“Let me read your cards about this, Bella,” Alice insists. “I promise it will only bring fortune and clarity, to use some foresight about Edward.” 

I’m not usually interested in Alice’s witchy ways, but every time she’s claimed to be overcome with visions of the future she’s been right. I agree to her request, and she lights some orange incense when she brings forth her worn deck of Tarot cards from her bedroom.

“When I met Edward, I knew he would bring both good and hardship to you,” Alice says, shuffling the cards. The red velveteen satchel from which she pulled them rests on the table beside the burning incense. “Let’s see where the cards land. I’ve set my intention to clarity.”

…Whatever that means. 

Alice tells me to focus on my breathing, slow and deep. She directs me to close my eyes and continues to shuffle the cards. With my eyes closed, I listen to the soft whisper of card moving against card and let all thoughts of how painful it is to be left fall from my head. When all that’s left in my head is the susurrus of cards, I open my eyes and Alice stops shuffling. 

She cuts the deck in half and sets the top pile of cards off to the side. From the cards left in her hand, Alice lays out three cards in the shape of a V in front of me. 

“Flip the first card over from left to right, not from top to bottom,” Alice directs me, and I do.

The card has the image of ten cups floating in the sky above a couple; upside down letters read “Ten of Cups.”

Alice directs me to continue to flip over cards; the next card is upright, “The Tower.” Alice stops me.

“Bella, the cards say that someone in your family abandoned you. When this person left you before, questions remained but you had no way to explain them. If you can find some answers to this sudden departure, you’ll reverse your fortune, which will help you rebuild the feeling of family.”

She taps the tower card. “This card symbolizes your present. You’re handling a sudden shift, a disaster. This is further complicated by the lack of clarity that your past card--” she taps the upside down world card-- “is telling me you’ve had to handle.”

“Are these bad cards?” I ask. I’m curious in a dark way, like this activity is off limits to me. 

Alice shakes her head.

“There are no bad cards. The cards are agents of truth. I’m merely here to interpret them.”

She gestures to me to turn over the last card.

“Ah,” Alice says. “The Devil, reversed.”

“Alice,” I say, “that sounds really bad.”

“Oh, but it isn’t,” Alice explains. “This card generally means entrapment in vicious cycles… if it’s upright. Reversed, it means freedom. Expansion. Clarity.

“So go forward with what you seek. You will find it, and it will release you from the chains of your past.”

I’m entranced by this whole idea of cards telling me the future, even if that last bit was a little hokey. Alice gets me another beer, which I finish quickly; I don’t want to run into Jane, and every minute I stay at the apartment raises my chances. Sometimes her barbs are so cruel I imagine them as needles in my skin. I make Alice promise to meet up with me at Gerdes Folk City this evening to see Rosalie perform and then head over to Edward’s apartment.

I feel a little drunk as I stop at unit 1108 and leave a note for Jacob, slipped under the door. 

_ Thank you for this morning. Let me buy you a drink at Gerdes Folk City tonight. 10PM. Don’t be late, Bella. _

I unlock the door to Edward’s apartment and stumble in, tipsier than I realized. Perhaps that’s an effect of the winding stairs, or maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten anything today. I go to the kitchen to eat something so I can work up a nerve before I call the phone number I have in my pocket. The laminate counters are chipped and discolored; the only things resting on them are a tin of coffee, a box of tea, and a breadbox. The breadbox has a quarter of a loaf of white bread in it, and I eat a slice even though I prefer rye. I explore the drawers, finding some cutlery-- and a bag of salted black licorice drops. I can’t help but cry at this. Edward doesn’t like licorice, not like I do. He bought this  _ for _ me, with the intention that I’d be here to eat it. Why, why, why did he just up and leave?

Without thinking, I eat a handful of the licorice. The strong taste of anise feels like it strips some of my sadness away; I eat another handful, and the salt compounds the feeling of sadness being chased away. Before I know it I’ve finished the bag. My mouth feels gummy with sugar and my lips sting with the salt. I swallow thickly against the lump in my throat that rises when I realize I’ve just lost the last thing Edward gave me. That if I hadn’t eaten the candy, a part of him would still be here. I want to cry but my stomach is rolling and that helps me push the tears back down.

I find beer, milk, and hamburger meat in Edward’s refrigerator. I pour myself a cup of milk and help myself to a pinch of the meat out of the fridge. I swallow the milk and open a beer before settling down to call the number. 

The party line is in use, so I amuse myself by drinking the beer and looking in Edward’s boxes of records. Could he really have left so much behind? Who in their right mind would leave behind Simon & Garfunkel, the Beatles? How could he live without Rubber Soul? His favorite albums are here: the Kinks, the Beau Brummels, the Byrds…

I’m feeling morose when I try the party line again and it’s free. I dial the number in my pocket and feel my heart flutter out of rhythm while it rings. 

“Hello?” The voice on the line is male, older, British. I think.

“Who is this?” I say. Or rather, I slur. I think I’m drunker than I thought. 

“Who is  _ this?” _ The man asks. “You’re calling me.”

“I’m calling for Edward,” I say. I feel so ridiculous, cold calling this number. I should have thought of something to say first. 

“This is Edward,” the man snaps. Oh.

_ Oh. _

“Edward Masen?” I ask although I know the answer. “Edward Masen, Sr?”

“Who is calling?” Edward’s father demands. 

I feel sober but loopy. I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what to ask him, what to tell him. Did he summon Edward home? What did Edward leave unsaid when we were talking last night?

“Um,” I begin, not sure what to do. “Please tell Edward Masen, Jr. to call Mr. Molina at the Bronx Press-Review as soon as possible.”

“Who is this?” Edward Sr. repeats.

“Thank you,” I say, then I gingerly hang up the phone.

I finish the beer in a daze. I stare at the wall as the light fades. Edward kept his father’s number in his phonebook at work, but I flipped through his home phonebook and didn’t find the number replicated.  _ He must have been running from something in Chicago, _ I figure, but from what I don’t know. It puts my own situation into perspective, and I pick up the phone once more.

Thankfully the party line is free. I dial Mr. Banner’s number and on the second ring a woman picks up.

“Hello?” 

“Is this Mrs. Banner?” I ask. 

“Yes, who’s calling?” She replies.

“My name is Isabella Swan. I’m a graduate of Garfield High School. You should ask your husband about me,” I say, then slam down the receiver. I pick up the phone again and swirl my finger through the dial to call the Seattle Department of Police.

“Is Officer Charles Swan in the office?” I ask the receptionist.

“He’s not on duty today,” she responds. I thank her and dial the number to home.

The line rings for ages, but finally, mercifully, my father picks up.

“Hello?” 

“Father?” I say, quietly. “Daddy?”

“Bella? Is that you?” His voice breaks on my name, and my heart breaks to hear the rasp in his voice.

“Yes, Daddy, it’s me,” I say. I haven’t called him anything other than Father for more than 10 years. It feels strange to call him Daddy, like I did when I was a small child, but alone in Edward’s apartment, with my world crumbling around me, it feels right.

“Bella, Bella,” he sobs. “Bella, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so, so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I admit through tears. 

“Where are you?” He asks. “Come home, Bella, come home.”

I can’t answer him. I can only cry. Though we’re nearly 3,000 miles apart, it’s like we’re together at this moment. I feel him holding me and comforting me in a way he’s never done before.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says raggedly. 

There’s too much to say to him and no words for me to use. I feel so, so stupid for calling my father on a whim but so much relief at the revelation that he doesn’t hate me, that he misses me. It’s a relief to admit to myself that I miss him too; that I’m homesick even though Seattle feels far from a real home.

“Daddy, please,” I say. “What happened to Mother? Where is she?”

Over the phone, I can hear my father sigh. When my mother left us all those years ago, my father refused to admit that she was gone. For months he pretended she was still there, shutting down every attempt at conversation about her whereabouts.  _ There are things a girl needs her mother for, _ I tried to explain to him. He ignored me. He  _ had _ to know more.

Father takes a deep breath before speaking. “Your mother is in Brooklyn, living with her mother,” he says at last.

My vision goes white. My ears are ringing. I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. Numbly, I hang up the phone without saying anything. All this time I’ve been living in Manhattan and my mother is in  _ Brooklyn _ . I could have seen her any day. I could see her tonight. I could see her tomorrow. 

All of a sudden, I don’t want to know where my mother is. I don’t want to think about how the first time I’ve felt at home, on my own terms was with Edward. I don’t want to know why Edward left me. I don’t want to know anything. I get the last beer out of the fridge and drink it as quickly as I can before racing down the stairs and into a cab. I pay the driver with a dollar from my pocket and race into the club before he can tell me if that’s the correct fare or not.

At Gerdes Folk City, I realize I’ve left my pocketbook at home as I try to buy myself a drink, but there are several men who pay for me. I trip over my own feet to give Jasper a hug when I spot him, but upon falling in his lap I see he isn’t Jasper. This is the funniest thing I’ve ever encountered, and I laugh as he pushes me off his lap and onto the floor. I’m still laughing when I’m helped up by someone with large, strong hands. 

My vision swims as I try to focus on the person helping me up. Finally, his face is clear: it’s Jacob! I wrap my arms around his neck and plant a wet kiss on his cheek.

“Let me buy you a drink and thank you,” I slur. I’ve managed to spill my whiskey sour all down the front of my dress-- or was it the rum drink I’d had before? Either way, I’m all wet and it’s a laugh. I dizzily drag Jacob to the bar as Rosalie takes the stage.

“You don’t own me,” Rosalie sings, waggling her finger at the crowd. “Don’t try to change me in any way.”

“I LOVE Lesley Gore!” I yell into Jacob’s ear, but that’s not true. I only  _ like _ her music. I hiccup a bit and the room spins. I grip Jacob’s polo shirt as I slide down the bar until I’m sitting on the floor, legs splayed.

Someone trips over my foot. Someone hauls me up. I can hear the music and hear people talking but I can’t process anything, the world is moving too quickly. I’m outside the club and someone is holding my head still as I bend over and vomit on my shoes.

I’m crying and heaving, retching and gasping, choking and spitting. I gag when I’m done, when I’ve thrown up all there is in my body. I feel lightheaded and woozy and miserable. Everyone is gone, everyone has left me and I’m just a broken shell on the seashore…

Except I’m not alone. Jacob is smoothing my sweaty hair from my face and wiping my mouth with a handkerchief. I turn around in his arms and look at him with eyes as feverish as my mind.

“I’m in love with you,” I say. “You’re saving my life. Come home and ravish me.”

Jacob looks uncomfortable. I want to grope him and place his huge hands on my breasts and between my legs. I want him to make me forget about everything. I want to reclaim my body through sex, but my arms aren’t working like they’re supposed to. 

A voice is beside my ear: Alice. She sounds worried.

“Can you get her home?” She’s asking. “She has work tomorrow, the early shift at the pancake house in East Harlem. You’ll get her up, you’ll get her there?”

Some deal is being made over me, and the next thing I know I’m being poured into a cab, hoisted up flights of stairs, and dumped on a couch. I’m asleep before I can process the changes, and then I’m shaken awake fifteen minutes later.

Only it’s not fifteen minutes later. It’s the morning, and my mouth is dry and carpeted in a disgusting, fuzzy foam. I gag a bit and vomit weakly into a bowl that’s thrust in front of me. I spit and look up; before me is Jacob, looking concerned.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“I think I’m still drunk,” I say. 

We’re in his apartment. His father isn’t home; working a night shift, Jacob explains. He shows me the bathroom and I steal a tab of aspirin as I gulp greedily from the sink. I’m wiping my mouth when Jacob knocks on the door.

“You have work today… Alice said--”

“Shit!” I never curse out loud. I’m shocked at my behavior and I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Sorry!”

I hear Jacob laugh. 

“It’s fine, Bella,” he says. “Let me take you to work.”

Still wobbly, I race up the stairs to grab my work dress and apron. It smells a little ripe and should have been washed yesterday, but I spot a bottle of Edward’s aftershave and I dab it on the dress at the armpits and bust. I smell like Edward, which makes my heart ache along with my head. I join Jacob downstairs at the stoop, carrying my work shoes in hand. 

Jacob holds my apron for me on the subway ride to Lexington. He lets me pay for his ride but refuses my attempts to pay him back for the cab last night. I insist on making it up to him, but the night was blurry enough and my head is still buzzing so I’m willing to let it drop.

We walk to the pancake house and Jacob agrees to let me treat him to breakfast. Inside, Mr. Newton is yelling at a cook. While I brew coffee, an idea strikes.

“Mr. Newton,” I say. “I have a candidate for a kitchen job with me. Jacob here is an exemplary cook and he’d be perfect for early mornings.”

Mr. Newton looks Jacob over. “He looks like a kid.”

“He has the key to the fountain of youth,” I say, avoiding confirming Jacob’s age. 

Mr. Newton pulls Jacob aside and asks him some questions as I wrap cutlery with Janice. 

“Who is that tall drink of water?” She asks.

“Our new cook,” I say with confidence.

Mr. Newton retreats to his little office as Janice flips our sign from ‘closed’ to ‘open.’ Jacob taps me on the shoulder.

“He wants to hire me for the summer,” Jacob says. “Did you do this?”

“I did,” I admit. “That’s what friends are for, aren’t they?”

“I’d say you’re more than a friend, getting me a job,” he says.

“And you’re more than a friend, getting me home safe last night. And to work this morning.

Jacob smiles at me. He blushes when I kiss his cheek and says he’ll be in on Wednesday to start working.

My shift flies by, despite the painful hum of a hangover. I serve with a smile and count eleven dollars in tips when I’m through. Alice and Rosalie surprise me at the end of my shift with a bag of donuts, and we walk to the subway arm in arm in arm.

I put my mother out of my mind, but Edward’s absence weighs heavily on my soul. The days trickle by, marked by shifts at work and mandated visits with Rosalie and Alice, but mostly I want to be alone. I stock Edward’s kitchen with vegetables and cheese and cook for myself spectacular meals, huge meals that are thoroughly salted and seasoned. I eat everything and taste nothing. I am ravenous for sensation against this painful gloom, this ache of everything being so close and so far away. 

Jacob keeps me company even when I don’t ask him to. He drags me from the apartment I’ve taken over to the roller rink, and although I fall and badly skin my knee, I enjoy myself. He’s kind and fun, this Jacob. He is a comfort, albeit a hollow one.

As the days pass and the end of the month nears, I wonder about my future but refuse to act on it. I owe Alice rent, but I’ve been living at Edward’s apartment. I don’t know if he’s paid for August, or if he will, or what. I can’t even begin to think about what to do about his furniture, or if I could afford this place.

Emmett has become a staple in Rosalie’s life; he’s funny and handsome in a goofy way and he clearly adores her. She blushes when they’re together. I rarely see her alone anymore. I don’t ask about Emmett’s work at the newspaper, if Edward got in touch with his boss, if the message ever got to him. I don’t know if I want to know.

Jacob and I make the commute to work together, and sometimes I find my hand wrapped in his. We go out most nights with Andy and his friends. I catch myself in photos Andy hangs up around the Factory, looking glam and glum at once. I’m never high but I always look a little detached. I forget all my reservations about buying alcohol underage, and I learn to drink with style. I don’t embarrass myself again like I did the day Edward left me. 

Alice visits me at work to tell me to pay my rent this month to Jane. She’s been offered a job designing costumes for a Broadway show that’s moving to Chicago; since she worked sewing the costumes for the show in New York, they think she’ll be able to bring the feel of the Big Apple to the Windy City. 

“I’m also cheaper than the real star designers,” Alice laughs. I want to cry at losing her, too.

“Will you come back?” I ask, sounding like a little girl.

Alice strokes my cheek.

“Before you know it. I’ll only be there through the first week of August.”

In the kitchen, Jacob holds me on my break. He joins me for a smoke outside, but barely smokes his cigarette because he’s busy catching the tears that leak out the corners of my eyes as I smoke. We finish our shift at the same time and ride back to Alphabet City together. I eat dinner with Jacob and his father, then Jacob escorts me to the liminal space of Edward’s apartment.

When Jacob follows me to Edward’s room, I don’t tell him to leave. When he kisses me, I don’t resist. We don’t make love, but not for his lack of desire; that night when I push his face off mine and he curls around me, I feel his desire pressing into the small of my back. I wonder if my apprehension will pass, if I’ll ever open myself to him as I was trying to with Edward. Until then, I let myself steep in the murky waters of the unknown, drifting ever deeper with each passing day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song is “Just Let Me Cry” by Lesley Gore. Give it a listen!
> 
> Thalidomide is a drug that was administered to pregnant women to help with nausea in the 1950s and 1960s. It helped with nausea but it stunted the development of limbs in utero. Rosalie's son was born with phocomelia (the term for maldevelopment in arms and legs) and a cleft lip. Thalidomide doesn’t cause cleft palates, it’s just a birth defect that happens. Sometimes called a harelip, it makes suction very difficult for newborns (and for those who have reparative surgery). I write about it not to be tacky, but because it’s a part of life. I know lots of people who’ve had cleft palate surgery and I rarely see their representation in media.
> 
> Rosalie also describes suffering from preeclampsia, which can be fatal if untreated. Rose was lucky to be at the hospital and have a blood transfusion.
> 
> In the 1950s, my grandmother was told she only should gain 10 pounds during her pregnancy. In our story, Rosalie would have been pregnant in 1964. In rural South Carolina, it’s not unlikely she would have received outdated medical advice. She also likely would have smoked throughout her pregnancy, as both of my grandmothers did in theirs.
> 
> 217 was the area code for all of Illinois in 1966. Area codes were introduced in 1947 and expanded yearly after that. In the 1960s, Washington only had one area code (206) while New York had two. Nowadays Washington has a bunch of them, as do most states.
> 
> Gerdes Folk City was another lounge the Warhol Superstars frequented in the 1960s. It closed in 1987, but it was the site of a famous Bob Dylan show in 1961. Emmylou Harris waitressed at Folk City and developed her act there as well.
> 
> I wanted Alice to do a more extensive tarot reading for Bella, but in editing this chapter I cut it down from an advanced 7 card spread to a standard 3. One of my friends is a tarot master and was a great help while writing that. I'd be happy to post it as a one-shot, maybe, but it was just too long to explain in an already long chapter. I want things to move at a clip, ya know?
> 
> About Bella eating a bit of raw ground beef: this was something my grandmother fed my mother and uncles in the 1960s. If she was cooking with ground beef, she gave them each some bites of it. Call it a poor woman’s steak tartare. I think it’s totally gross, but they all turned out fine.
> 
> “You Don’t Own Me" is one of Lesley Gore’s greatest hits. I had to include it. I think the ladies of “First Wives Club” do it better— check out the scene on YouTube if you get the chance.


	11. It Ain't Me Babe

**July 18, 1966**

**Chicago**

**Edward**

I’d forgotten how brutal a full day train trip could be since I’d returned to New York after my mother’s funeral. Although this time I’m not fresh from the loss of a mother, I’m heavy with grief. My father is not the man I thought he was, and that makes me a different man as well.

The entire train ride, my thoughts kept being pulled from my father and Chicago to Bella. Bella, my happiness, my hope; Bella on her knees, her beautiful face confused and finally devastated. I think about how she never played her autoharp for me. I think about her breath, sweet with the licorice-- I think about the licorice I’d bought for her that she never got to eat. I think about my misery at being without her and I almost wish I’d asked her to come with me.

Of course, I also think about the phone call that spurred me to come home.

_ “Carlisle Cullen?” The name was unfamiliar to me. “I’ve never heard of you.” _

_ “I still don’t know whom I’m speaking with,” he said.  _

_ “I’m Edward Masen,” I said. My grip on the phone was clammy and strange. It felt like I was only sort of attached to my body. _

_ “Edward Masen… Junior?” Carlisle asked. _

_ “Yes,” I said. “You said I’m calling your father?”  _

_ “Yes,” Carlisle said. “My father, Edward Masen, left my mother and me in 1935 when I was a child. He said he’d send for us once he got to America. No letter ever came.” _

_ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You have a different last name,” I accused. _

_ “My mother remarried a year after he left. I know Edward had a family in America, but I was under the impression that both his wife and his daughter had died.” _

_ I felt a knot in my throat. “He didn’t mention me?” I asked pitifully. _

_ “No.” _

_ It’s not like my world shifted axis. I’d known my father hated me, but now I knew how much. He had a son before me. I’d never been able to compare. I was speechless. _

_ “I think this makes you my brother,” Carlisle said softly.  _

_ “Yeah,” is all I could say. _

_ We were silent for a few minutes. I felt my stomach churning uncomfortably. I could hear this man, Carlisle, my brother, breathing on the other line. _

_ “Did he tell you about Maggie?” I asked. “Martha, I mean. That was her name.” _

_ “Not much,” Carlisle said. “What happened?” _

_ “I was supposed to be watching her,” I said. My voice felt thick in my throat. “I told her to go play on her own. She got tangled in the tire swing. She either broke her neck or was strangled to death.” _

_ I heard Carlisle’s sharp intake of breath through the phone. _

_ “It was my fault,” I said dumbly. It cut me to the core. _

_ “Edward-- our father, not you-- he left my sister Florence alone too long while he was supposed to be caring for us,” Carlisle says. “She got out of the house and into the street. She was struck by a car and killed. We’ve both had sisters the other will never meet.” _

If Carlisle meant for this to comfort me, to ease my guilt, he only compounded it. My father’s negligence was fatal, and it was a trait I’d apparently inherited. It solidified my belief that I was responsible for Maggie’s death, as Carlisle so clearly blamed his, my, our father for the death of my other sister. I’d never known it could hurt to lose something you didn’t have: another sister, an older sister. I’d had an older brother my whole life; twenty-five years without a word from my father about a family he’d left behind in England.

I’d  _ been _ the older brother my whole life. Every lesson from Ma about being a gentleman came under the guise of being a good role model, an exemplary big brother. She taught me to look at women the way I’d looked at my sister when she was an infant; fragile, unique, and so inherently perfect. I was proud to be a good older brother. Being Maggie’s protector taught me courage and sacrifice and gave me a position in my home that couldn’t be called into question by my own father; I could be good to Maggie without his input, and Maggie knew how much I loved her. At least, she knew that until the day I couldn’t put down the goddamn book I was reading or turn off the goddamn baseball game to go push her on the tire swing outside. That day everything changed. That day, I became the deadbeat Pa always said I’d become. That day, I sealed my own fate to ruin everything I held dear.

Carlisle explained to me that our father left, unplanned, the day after Florence’s funeral. He’d come to America to forget his guilt, and he’d gone and had a son that made his same mistakes. Maggie’d always been his favorite; she was everyone’s favorite. A shining little girl, precocious and pretty and deserving of so much more than me as a brother. 

Carlisle told me that he came to America to look for our father. He was established in England as a doctor; his stepfather was a doctor and he’d followed in his footsteps. Carlisle was newly married and his wife was expecting their first child. He’d felt that to become a father, he had to know his own, so they’d packed up everything and flown to New York where they spent a month tracking our father down. Esme, Carlisle’s wife, was working as a nurse at St. Luke’s Hospital, where Carlisle had found work as an emergency medical surgeon. He wanted to meet me and confront our father together about the missing pieces in our history.

I ended our phone call so torn up I had to take a walk before going home to Bella. I started walking in Alphabet City and ended up on the Upper East Side. I stopped in a bar to rest my feet a bit and bought a straight bourbon. I finished the liquor, tipped, and set off back home, thoughts still circling my head in an indecipherable order. 

But I didn’t get home right away. I stopped for another drink in Gramercy and then passed Alphabet City to have a drink in the Bowery. And Little Italy. And for the last call in Soho, as well as Greenwich because the bars stayed open later. I was drunk, morosely so, and my thoughts kept returning to my father’s negligence, his outright abandonment of his family in England, and how I’d been raised to be my father’s son through and through. I’d already killed my sister; the next step was to abandon my family. I didn’t have a family yet, and I knew that if I stayed in New York any longer, I’d do something rash like ask Bella to marry me. I couldn’t abandon her if she were in the family way. After her mother, after her teacher, after her father… it would kill her. I had to get away, to save Bella from myself.

I walked until I got to the stoop of my building. I knew I couldn’t go up and see Bella while she was sleeping; her innocence, her total surrender to unconsciousness and the way she talked in her sleep would break my resolve. Instead of going inside, I turned and walked Tompkins Square Park until dawn. I kept walking until I was firm in my plan to grab only my essentials and leave New York City, my own life be damned. I thought I’d been certain of fate when I saw Bella’s photograph the day I met her, but the phone call with Carlisle confirmed my belief in the worst way. I was my father’s son, and I would soon become my father. I’d only let people down. I promised myself I won’t do that to Bella.

I got to Penn Station and bought my ticket to Chicago before I realized that I had Bella’s bag with me. It rested against my leg like a hot iron. Everything in me screamed to go back to my apartment, to grab Bella and beg her to forgive me… but I ignored it and boarded the train.

The weather in Chicago is marginally cooler than in New York. I leave Union Station without needing to think about where I’m going, and it dawns on me that I no longer have to think hard about getting places in New York anymore. I feel an ache in my heart at the thought of New York. I’ve been gone barely a full day and I miss it like a fish on land misses water.  _ I can turn around and go back,  _ I think, but I’ve come all this way and I really ought to meet my brother.

I can barely believe I have a brother, but I catch sight of him in person through the window of the hospital. A nurse pointed me to the operating room when I asked nicely; Carlisle, in his doctor’s coat and surgical gown and cap, is clearly liked and respected around here. I watch him make an incision through the tiny window on the door when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

It’s a redheaded nurse. She’s got a kind face, all rosy cheeked and blue eyed. She’s pregnant, I notice, and I realize this could be Carlisle’s wife.

“Pardon me, but are you Edward Masen?” She asks. 

“I am,” I say. “Um, how did you know?”

“I saw you watching my husband. You look a lot like your father,” she explains. I grimace. I know I resemble my father, and I don’t like it. It’s another reminder of what a miserable bastard I am by nature.

“Carlisle didn’t tell me you’d be paying a visit,” she says. “He said you spoke on the phone the other night, but that was all.”

“I didn’t know I’d be in town, either,” I say. “It just sort of… happened.”

“He’ll be out of surgery in an hour or so,” she says. “Would you like to sit down in the waiting room and meet him?”

I would. I sit in the waiting room of St. Luke’s Hospital, bewildered at my circumstances. I twiddle my thumbs, staring at my feet but jerking my head up at every entrance and exit from the room. Finally, when my neck feels like it’s about to break from snapping up and down, I see Carlisle and his nurse wife at the door. I stand up, unsure of what to do with my hands.

In person, Carlisle looks much more like my father than I could have imagined. They share the same coloring; both are blond, but Carlisle’s blond is paler, less honeyed than our father’s. Carlisle’s features are rounder, perhaps a bit broader too. He opens his mouth at the sight of me and I see that his top teeth are perfect but the bottom row of teeth are a little cramped and wonky. Carlisle is a little shorter than I am, but not by much. Looking at the two of us, one could reasonably assume we’re related.

“I take it you’re Edward,” he says. It’s awkward. 

“Yeah,” I say, a little out of breath. I feel out of place and time, like I’m actually still in New York, only dreaming about this. I bite my cheek and wince at the pain, tasting blood. I’m really here.

Carlisle extends a hand, and I shake it. 

“Would you like to find somewhere to have a seat and a talk? I don’t have another patient for a few minutes.”

I nod. Carlisle finds us an exam room and we all file in.

“This is Esme, my wife,” he says. “Though I take it you’ve met.”

“Yeah,” I say. It seems like the only word I know today.

“So, what do you do for a living, Edward?” Carlisle asks. 

“I’m a photographer for the Bronx Press-Review,” I say. “Or, at least, I was a photographer. I came here without really telling anybody. I’m probably going to lose my job.”

Carlisle and Esme frown at this. 

“Do you have someone you can get in touch with?” Esme asks. “You didn’t say how long you were staying…”

“It’s open-ended,” I say. “I couldn’t stay in New York.”

Carlisle lets me leave it at that.

“So,” he says, a little brighter at the change of topic. “How old are you?”

“I turned 25 last month,” I say. “Um. How old are you?”

“I’m 36,” Carlisle says. “I was born in 1930. Florence, my sister, was born a year later.”

“Maggie-- Martha, I mean, was born in 1945,” I say. “She died in ’58.”

Esme puts her hand on my arm.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says. I shrug it off, uncomfortable at the attention. Nobody says anything until I get antsy at the silence.

“Ma died last year,” I say out of nowhere.

Esme gasps. “Edward, I am so sorry for you,” she says. “What an awful thing, to lose a mother.”

“Probably like losing a father,” I say to Carlisle. “You never heard from him? Ever?”

“Well, I did receive a call from him some years ago,” Carlisle says. “At the holidays in 1959. He said he missed his son. My heart was too hard to listen to him, however. I hung up on him before he could say much more than that. It took meeting Esme to start to soften me up.”

“Stiff upper lip, the proper Englishman,” Esme chides with a smile. Carlisle touches her hand and they share a look of mutual admiration. It makes my stomach clench, and I can’t help but think of Bella.

“Where are you staying?” Carlisle asks me after the moment between him and Esme passes.

“I hadn’t planned that far ahead,” I admit.

“We’re renting rooms in a boarding house,” Esme says. “We stayed at first with your father, but I fear we’ve overstayed our welcome. I’m sure our landlord would be able to find some space for you.”

I shudder at the thought of living in a boarding house again.

“I’ll think about it,” I say. “I should get going…”

Carlisle grabs my arm to stop me.

“I want to give you some time to talk to our father,” he says. “But I’d like to get a chance to speak with you, just the two of us. I’d like to get to know my brother.”

I smile weakly.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “I’ll be around.”

I stand up and walk out without looking back. I’m itching to get out of the hospital but not sure where I want to go. I leave the hospital and walk the streets like a vagabond until I pass by a record store. On a whim, I go inside to browse, like I would do if I were in Manhattan. I rifle through the new singles when a song comes on through the shop speakers that stops me in my tracks.

_ “April, come she will…” _

Paul Simon’s voice strikes me to my soul. I’m tethered to the floor where I stand, just listening to the song. I feel my throat swell and close on me, making it impossible to breathe deeply. I sip air shallowly and feel my eyes prick with tears. When the beat of the next song comes through the speakers, I am shaken from my reverie. I try to breathe more regularly and I feel the collar of my shirt wet against my neck. 

I touch my face and am shocked to find it wet as well; I’m  _ crying _ like a fool, in the record store. Furiously, I wipe my eyes, but the tears keep coming. The upbeat song ends and I hear the fast strumming of the final song on the track of Bella’s favorite album,  _ Sounds of Silence. _

_ “A winter’s day in deep and dark December…”  _

I fight back a sob. I walk quickly to the ‘S’ section of the store to find the album.

_ “I am alone…” _

I grab the album and write the store a check. I leave the store quickly to avoid further humiliation and stalk the alleys of Chicago. The alleys give way to side streets, the side streets to residential roads. Before long I come upon my childhood home. The house is unremarkable, a standard but small three bedroom home. The white paint of the house is a little cracked. The fence has been recently repaired, I can tell. 

I step into the yard and walk around the house. The backyard, which once held raised beds for a vegetable garden and a tall tree with a tire swing, looks dead. The tree has been cut down and the stump left behind is jagged and uninviting. I can still track where the branch with the tire swing was because of the deep groove in the dirt, dug by the kicks of long gone children trying to swing higher.  _ Both the children who resided in this house are dead now,  _ I think. One dead because of the swing. The other lost to adulthood.

The thought is so morose that it summons forth a new wave of tears. These tears are noisier than the ones in the record store. I don’t fight them; I stand in my childhood backyard and cry for everything I’ve lost, everything I took from myself, everything I gave away.

I think about Bella, how she was crying when I left, how she cried the night before, how every time she was upset I held her and that seemed to help. There’s no one here to help me. I wrap my arms around myself and try to gather my wits, but it’s hard. I feel like I’m shivering despite the heat of the day. The door out the back of the was nearly always unlocked when I lived here, so I decide to try it. I’m lucky that it opens easily. 

The inside of the house is exactly as I remember it, minus a few framed photographs. On the wall in the kitchen, underneath the clock, my portrait used to hang beside Maggie’s. It’s not there anymore, its absence noted by the rectangle of slightly discolored wallpaper. The kitchen is clean, but not immaculately so. Ma used to clean the house before our housekeeper came once a week, so the housekeeper could really thoroughly get rid of the patina of life and use. With Ma tidying every day and scrubbing once a week, the house shined like it was made from silver. Now everything looks like a still life painting in that it seems devoid of sparkle and dead.

Without really thinking about it, I pull my camera from the bag. I wind in a new roll of film and switch lenses and snap pictures of my house in black and white. I open my Ma’s china cabinet and photograph a delicate cup with a chip in it. Ma would have called all the department stores in Chicago to try and find a new cup with the correct pattern; Pa probably never even noticed that the cup was cracked.

I make my way to the living room and look at the upright piano near the front door. The key cover is in place. When Ma was alive, it never was. The house was full of her music, even after Maggie’s death. Ma loved the Romantic composers. Every Sunday I woke up to Schubert or Chopin. I learned to play with Ma’s music books covering that era of music. I feel a pull to play something; I flip up the cover and plunk a key, disgusted that the piano is out of tune. My finger comes away with dust caked to it. I hate my father more in this moment than I thought possible.

I leave the house through the back door when it starts to get dark; I don’t want to see my father just yet. I walk the neighborhood for hours until I pass my house and see my father’s Pontiac Catalina parked in the driveway. The light on in the living room. I draw closer to the house and peer in the window; there, sitting in his chair, is my father, barely recognizable.

In the year since I saw him last, he’s grown so much older. He was always trim and stern in face, but the man in the window is heavy, balding, exhausted. There are thick lines that surround his mouth like parentheses. His hair was always between blond and red, but now it’s virtually completely silver; even his eyebrows are graying. He’s staring intently into the corner of the room where our armoire is, which is unusual for the father I remember… 

I can’t keep myself from knocking on the door. I hear my father creak to his feet and shuffle to the door. He unlocks it and his jaw drops at seeing me. I wonder how I look to him; I’m at a healthy weight since I’ve been eating more regularly with Bella on my case about it. My hair is long, down past my chin, a bit shaggy now. I haven’t shaved in a bit so my face is probably looking a little red from beard growth. I had my mother’s coloring but my father’s head shape; squarish, with a prominent brow and cleft chin. Bella thought I was so handsome, and I know my mother thought the same of my father… The man before me is old and ugly.

“Pa,” I say. 

He’s speechless, his jaw opening and closing like a trout. 

I thought I’d want to slug him when I saw him. I thought I might want him to hug me, to say something to me. To tell me he was proud of me. There’s no way he knows enough about me to be proud, though. I’m disgusted by him, by this old man who is a liar and a glutton. I can smell the frozen dinner cooking in the oven and the salty fat odor makes me want to vomit.

I turn away and start to walk down the steps when he calls out to me.

“Edward,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I look back up the steps. 

“I know.”

“Polite company would call ahead of time,” he says. That’s more like the man I knew.

“I did call the other night. Carlisle answered.”

My father pales at this. 

“I see,” he says quietly. 

I move my shoulders and press my lips together. There’s nothing to say to him about that. 

“Would you like to come inside?” He asks. “I can make you a cup of tea.”

I would not like to come inside, but I don’t know what I would like to do, so I agree to come in. I follow my father in and take a seat on the green Chesterfield that my mother so adored. In the other room, my father putters around filling the stovetop kettle with water. I notice the door to our armoir is open. I stand up and open the other door; inside is a new television.

I’m dumbfounded by the new television. We’d always had one growing up, but Pa never was too keen on watching with Maggie and Ma and me. Who has he become in the year he spent without Ma? 

“If you’ll just come to the kitchen for the cuppa,” Pa says. I leave the armoire and television to go collect my cup. Pa didn’t put the tea in the teapot, like Ma used to do. Instead he’s got a teabag in a coffee mug that smells like it still has coffee in it. I take a sip of the tea without milk and grimace at the taste of weak tea overlain with the dregs of coffee.

Pa carries his own cup into the living room and sets it beside his chair, then waddles back to the kitchen to grab the frozen dinner out of the oven. It’s on a TV tray, and he brings it into the living room. He tucks a napkin into his collar, switches on the television, and settles into his chair which he’s angled a little closer to the television set. Still, the chair doesn’t face the set head on, so Pa is all twisted around in his chair. The tray sits in his lap, and he spoons brown gravy and stringy meat over a lump of potatoes. I watch my father-- who used to insist on eating our meals together in the dining room for every meal when he was home, even lunch-- keep his eyes trained on the television as he blows over the steaming spoonful of salty goop before placing it gently in his mouth. Again, I want to throw up.

Pa watches all of  _ Combat! _ While eating his meal. I barely register what’s on screen, my eyes trained on my father who is more of a stranger than I could have imagined. When the end credits roll, Pa glances at me and clears his throat.

“Someone from the Bronx Press-Review called yesterday,” he says. “They said to call back about your job.”

My stomach clenches at the thought of my job. It’s been far from my mind with everything else at hand. If I’m honest with myself, that kind of job is the job of a lifetime for me; I love the freedom to work at my own pace, at my own hours as long as they’re within reason. I love the creativity of photography, the way I get to capture and document the world. I feel like I’m no good with words, so taking pictures makes it possible for me to make my mark on history. I think I grimace a bit because Pa changes the subject.

“So you’ve met Carlisle,” he says. I nod.

“He’s a good man,” he says. I nod again. “He grew up well, I think.”

“No thanks to you,” I say. “Because as he tells it, you left him the day after you killed his sister. My sister. Who you never told me about. Nor Carlisle, for that matter.”

Pa looks affronted. 

“That’s not true in the slightest,” he says with real heat in his voice. “I think you’d do well to remember the lesson I taught you about lying when you were a boy.”

“You want to whip me?” I ask redundantly. “You want to whip me, you fat old man? I’d like to see you try.”

“Watch your tone when you’re talking to me,  _ Martha,”  _ he says nastily. “You queer little thing, you long-haired nancy boy. I’m your father.”

“I’m not your only son!” I roar at him. I’m standing now, although I don’t remember standing up. I loom over Pa in his chair. He’s not shrinking back or breaking my gaze; his head is held high above his fleshy neck. I notice an ashtray by his feet, filled with cigarette butts. I want to kick it over.

“And a good thing that is,” Pa snarls, “because at least I have a son who doesn’t disappoint me.”

I stop holding my temper and kick the ashtray, sending it flying. The cigarette butts dust the carpet that once belonged to Ma’s grandmother. I snatch up my bag and turn on my heel. Wrenching open the door, I turn back to look at my father one last time.

“Murderer,” I spit at him.

“Hardly,” he retorts, raising his voice. “I had a child who ran into the street. You left your sister to hang herself, and you didn’t even notice until she’d been dead for hours.”

I slam the door shut behind me and take off into the night. 

The anger and disgust swirling through my body is unshakable. In the early days in New York-- who am I kidding, in the time before I met Bella-- I would take this feeling and use it to drive me to Paul’s apartment to get a fix of anything. I preferred grass for the dulling effect but would take speed if it was cheap and I had some kind of heat in my veins. With reality altered I’d walk the streets for hours until the high and the self hatred wore off. I’ve never done drugs in Chicago. 

I light a cigarette as I walk and smoke it down to the filter, then chew on the filter until it’s mushy, ashy pulp between my teeth. I smoke the rest of the pack this way. By the time the sun rises, I’m out of cigarettes but still full of this anger. In front of the La Salle Street YMCA, I use a dime to call Mr. Molina back in New York City.

“Molina,” he answers when the reception girls put me through.

“It’s Edward Masen,” I say. I hear Mr. Molina flipping his lighter open and shut over the phone.

“You quitting, kid?” He asks. I sigh.

“I’m in hot water in Chicago,” I admit. “I don’t want to lose my job but I need a bit more time to sort some things through.”

“You’re lucky I like McCarty so much. One would almost think he has a better eye for pictures than you do.”

The comment smarts. I’m lucky we’re not face to face so he can’t see how much his words upset me.

“Yeah, well…” I don’t really know how to respond.

“Tell you what. I’ll give McCarty the stories I’d give you until August 1st. Come back with some pictures from Chicago. I want pictures that’ll blow Stieglitz out of his grave. Do that and I’ll consider letting you back on.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say. He hangs up on me without another word.

The woman working the front desk of the YMCA gets me a room and insists on walking me up to it, even though she’s not supposed to be upstairs where the men stay. She asks me if I want to invite her in; I don’t want to, but I almost do invite her to see my room. Instead I close the door in her face, and I sit on my uncomfortable cot with my head in my hands.

Eventually, I recognize that I feel hungry. I ignore it for as long as possible until I can’t even think straight. I find a little diner and order a hot dog and a cup of coffee. I have my camera and all my things with me, since I’m not so sure I trust the locks on the doors of the YMCA, and when the hot dog arrives on a plate I photograph it. After I pay my bill I walk the streets past dark, stopping to take pictures of decaying buildings if they catch my eye in a certain way.

Close to dawn, I come upon a teenage couple making out on a parked car. The girl’s skirt is hoisted up around her waist and the boy’s got his hands on her thighs. She’s wrapped around him so tightly that I can’t see him so clearly. I raise my camera and walk a little closer; what I thought might be a dark shirt turns out to be the color of the boy’s skin. He’s black and she’s white and with my flash on, the photo just might be the kind of thing Mr. Molina would take me back for. 

Quietly I attach my flash. I aim and take the shot. The flash startles the couple and they jolt apart. I take off running when I hear the boy shout at me, but not before I snap another picture of the girl trying to button up her shirt.

I fall into a routine of sleeping during the day and roaming the streets at night. I lose weight rapidly, from all the walking and smoking I’m doing; I’ve upped my cigarette intake from about half a pack a day to two full packs a night, and I’ve cut back on food until I’m just eating the one meal before my walk. Sometimes, if I can’t sleep during the day, I walk back to my old house and listen to my Simon & Garfunkel record while sitting in Pa’s chair. If I close my eyes it’s almost like Ma is still there. I don’t have the heart to look through my old room, or Maggie’s room, or explore Pa’s room. I do notice that Pa hasn’t cleaned the ashes up from when I kicked the ashtray. I photograph their trajectory along the rug, and though I’m tempted to put out my cigarettes on the rug itself, I don’t.

When I’m not sleeping, I’m thinking of Bella and how much I miss her. I fantasize about her following me, begging me to come back, telling me how much she loves and needs me. Those fantasies make me sick. No one needs me. I only bring pain and suffering. I sometimes consider meeting with Carlisle and learning about my brother, but I know from our limited interaction that he’s a good man; I don’t want to poison his good nature, to be an influence towards the evil roots of our family tree. All in all, I’m a sick, miserable bastard. I long for home, though I no longer know where that is or what that could be for me.

Time gets away from me. I ignore all my instincts to search for connection; it takes too much energy to focus on ignoring my father and my brother and my longing for Bella to pay attention to the girls at the diners who might look my way. I avoid St. Luke’s Hospital by 10 blocks most days so as to not run into Carlisle or Esme and let them see my shame.

By the 29th, my beard has grown out a fair amount. I’m out early for the night, close to Chicago’s theater district, wiping sweat out of my hair when I spot two familiar faces. Bella’s friend Alice and her man Jasper are dressed up like they’re about to meet the President; Alice’s short hair is curled and adorned with crystal hair pins and Jasper has his hair greased back into a respectable ’do. I surreptitiously snap a picture of the two of them with their friends, a group of other smartly dressed people. Alice is laughing at something someone in the group is saying when she spots me and the smile freezes on her face.

I do an about face and try to hoof it in the direction I came from, but I hear a shrill voice addressing me.

“You!” Alice cries. I hear her high heels clicking against the pavement. I keep walking but stop when something hits me in the back of my head.

I whip around as Alice’s handbag tumbles to the ground. I can’t believe she actually threw something at me. I don’t know exactly why I deserved it; leaving Bella was the kindest thing I could have done for her, even though each day I spend away from her feels like it’s slowly killing me. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. I try to take off into the night, but Alice and Jasper are on my tail.

“Come back here!” Alice shrieks as I turn the corner and crash into a pregnant woman. Just my luck-- it’s Esme.

“Edward,” she breathes. “Oh, Edward. I’m so sorry.”

I sputter a bit at her. 

“I bumped into you, I’m the one who should be saying sorry,” I stutter.

I hear Alice’s voice getting closer as tears well in Esme’s eyes. The anxiety that started mounting when I spotted Alice increases tenfold the closer her voice gets.

“Your father, Edward,” Esme says. “He’s had a heart attack. Carlisle was just with him at the hospital for the past few hours.”

I try to process what she’s saying as Alice and Jasper round the corner. 

“What’s going on?” I ask. The night, which once felt so open, feels like it’s circling in on me. I feel drunk even though I’ve had nothing to drink.

“Bastard!” Alice says as she punches my arm. Though she’s small, she’s mighty; the force of her hit makes me drop my camera. I hear it crunch against the pavement.

Esme looks taken aback at Alice and Jasper. Jasper pulls Alice away from me and holds her close to his side, holding her back from hitting me again.

“Esme, please tell me what’s going on,” I beg. I think I know what’s happening, somewhere in the back of my mind, in the pit of my stomach, in the core of my being. I don’t want to face it but I have no choice. 

“You got someone in Chicago  _ PREGNANT?!” _ Alice roars at me. I flinch at her words. Esme emphatically shakes her head and touches her belly. 

I stoop down to sweep up the pieces of my lens and camera as Esme stumbles around saying that she’s married, the baby belongs to her husband. The lens is unsalvageable but the camera might not be a lost cause…

Alice looks incredulously between me and Esme. It’s clear she smells a rat but I pretend I don’t see her when I turn to Esme and plead with my eyes for her to tell me what’s happening, why she’s apologizing.

“I’m so sorry,” Esme says at last. “You’ll have to call Carlisle to get the full story. But Edward, your father is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song: “It Ain’t Me Babe” by Bob Dylan. If you haven’t heard it, do yourself a favor and listen. It’s in my top 3 of Dylan songs.
> 
> So, in the earlier chapters Edward talks about his father’s age and timeline for coming to America. He gets it wrong; he says his father was 23 or 24 in 1935 (the year Edward Sr. emigrated) when he was actually a good 5-6 years older. Here’s a little timeline of the children of the Masen family:  
> Carlisle Edward Masen (b. 1930)  
> Florence Ann Masen (1931-1935)  
> Edward Anthony Masen Jr. (b. June 1941)  
> Martha Florence Masen (December 1945-May 1958)
> 
> Hope that helps!
> 
> New York geography: Alphabet City, where Bella and Edward both live, is a neighborhood in the East Village of Manhattan. It’s basically on the Lower East Side. Edward walked 4ish miles to get to the Upper East Side, then sort of zig-zagged across the city to get home. He passed home and continued south into Little Italy and then swung back up. While most New Yorkers walk an average of 5 miles a day, this is after a full day of work and walking. It’s a long way to go, is basically what I’m saying.
> 
> “In the family way” is a conservative way to say that someone is pregnant. It was certainly more common before the era of modern birth control and Roe v. Wade.
> 
> St. Luke’s hospital was a hospital in Chicago that eventually merged with Rush University to become a university hospital in 1972. The original set of buildings is a historic marker in Chicago even though they’re now condos.
> 
> The timeline guts me. Edward Sr. calling Carlisle in 1959 after Edward left for New York to talk about missing his son… 
> 
> The first song in the record store is “April Come She Will.” The other song in the record store is “I Am A Rock”; there’s a song between the two of those on the record, which Edward notes, but it’s not pertinent to the story so it’s only glossed over.
> 
> A Chesterfield is a style of couch. 
> 
> “Stieglitz” is in reference to Alfred Stieglitz, a famous photographer from New York City. Stieglitz established photography forums and hosted gallery shows of photography that won him acclaim. He was married to Georgia O’Keefe and took incredible portraits of her. He died in 1946.


	12. Don't Slip Away

**July 29, 1966**

**New York City**

**Bella**

In the early morning hours at the Factory, the light refracting over the silver and mirrors is ethereal and magical. I feel sad that I can’t truly appreciate it for how beautiful and strange it is; in the nearly two weeks since Edward left, I’ve been unable to wholly feel anything besides this melancholia. Still, I let myself look at the changing light for a moment before I let myself into Andy’s office.

The door is unlocked; it’s only locked about half the time, with no discernable pattern or reason for being so, but Andy gave me a key last week. He’s been paying me a nickel per hour to type up his childhood diaries. The rate suits me fine as it helps me hone my typing and it gives me something to do with the time between work and the parties. 

This morning I’m in early because I had a dream about Edward. He was holding me at a party at the Gaslight Cafe; in the dark lighting, to the bluesy, melodic music of Paul Clayton, who was performing live, Edward’s face shifted shape to Jacob’s each time we passed through a pocket of light. Edward, then Jacob, pulled me away from the dance floor, to a dark and smoky space backstage. I went willingly in my dream, mesmerized by the man I loved and the boy who clearly loved me. Backstage, my back was pressed against the wall that held ropes and pulleys for a long-defunct curtain. Edward was plastered to my front; we were making love standing up. My eyes were closed, but I opened them when I felt a hot mouth on my neck. To my horror, Edward was standing some feet away from me, watching me make love to a stranger. I saw the hatred and rage in his eyes as I felt electricity pulse through my veins and pool in the cradle of my pelvis; looking down at the man who was loving me, I saw that it was Jacob, so young, so devoted, so not the man I longed for. 

I woke with a start, my skin crawling. Jacob’s hand rested possessively on my hip, his face pressed into the back of my neck. I could feel his nose touching where I dreamed his mouth to be, and I had to get out of the apartment. I quickly dressed in my waitressing dress and stockings, gathered my shoes and apron, and left to do some typing before work, where I knew I’d see Jacob and have to apologize for my abrupt departure.

To my surprise, Andy is already in his office. He’s an odd bird, but rarely an early one; he prefers to stay up late, so his presence in the Factory this early is strange. He greets me with a smile and lights a cigarette for me.

“Hello, my little swan,” he says, passing me the cigarette. “Here to get your worm?”

I laugh a little awkwardly. Sometimes Andy is the most direct person in the world, and other times he talks in riddles.

“I thought I’d come early to do some typing,” I say. 

Andy nods thoughtfully. I sit down in the extra chair and load a new piece of paper into the Underwood Touch-Master that sits on a small wood folding table. I open Andy’s diary from 1941 and get to typing. I’ve gotten good at typing in the past weeks. I can type 42 words per minute; if I want to work in an office, I have to average higher than 60, ideally closer to 90. Idly, as I type, it strikes me that Edward was born in 1941, and that makes my heart ache. I sigh at the thought and the feeling but continue to type. 

I stop typing when Andy pokes me with his pencil. Sometimes I get so wound up in the typing that I forget if people are around me.

“Odette,” Andy says. “What do you want to do?”

I’m puzzled by the question.

“Right now?” I ask. “I’m happy to type.”

Andy shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. “What do you want to  _ do? _ You’re a waitress. You could be a model, but you say you won’t. You don’t want to do my movies anymore, you said. What will you do?”

I’m still a little confused. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Darling, you’re a young thing living all on your own in New York. The world is your oyster. What do you want from it?”

“I don’t know…” I trail off. I’m not really following his line of questions.

“Well, are you going to college?” Andy asks. 

“No,” I say. “But I wanted to.”

“Then why don’t you go?” Andy asks. “Not that I want to lose you. I would rather you stay here and make movies with me, but you’ve said you don’t want to and Blue would love to take your place in my movies… You’ve been unhappy. How come?”

I bristle at the tears that well in my eyes. I shake my head, trying to clear them, but I end up needing to wipe them. Andy watches me with feeling but without pity. It helps me calm myself quickly.

“I thought I’d made a home for myself here in New York but I’m not so sure anymore,” I admit. “I was fine for a while, then things were very good, and now I just feel so lost. I don’t really know what to do.”

Andy rubs his lips, contemplative. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. He finishes his cigarette and I light one of my hand rolled ones for him. He accepts it absently, then begins to talk.

“You might want to think about college,” he says, taking a drag on my cigarette. “You’ve got the heart of a writer, I think.”

Something inside of me seems to click into place. It’s a feeling similar to releasing the dial of the telephone after spinning to the final number; it’s like slipping shoes off after a full shift. It’s the feeling of knowing something all along but having it confirmed. I feel seen.

“Do you mean that?” I ask. My voice sounds high and breathy and feels like it’s coming from my head, not my throat.

Andy regards me seriously. “I do,” he says eventually. “You don’t want to be seen, but you want to be heard.”

“Yes,” I say without thinking. “Exactly, yes.” 

Andy cocks his head and squints at me. “You might not be a journalist, or a novelist, but you have a story that’s uniquely your own.”

I could cry at the validation in his words. For the first time since Edward left so abruptly, I don’t feel so heavy or dark. I feel like I could step into the sky.

“So, Odette,” Andy says. “What are you going to do about that?”

“Back in Washington, I’d thought about going to Barnard,” I say. “Since Columbia doesn’t take girls.” 

Andy smiles faintly at this. “And what do you need to do to make that happen?”

I think for a minute. “I need to take the SAT. And I’ll need to put together my transcript. And I need to get together a deposit…”

We sit in thoughtful silence together for a moment. 

“Tell you what, Odette,” Andy says at last. “If you get your affairs in order, and you promise you’ll make time for me and continue to type my diaries, I’ll pay your entrance rate into school.”

Now I can’t help myself but to cry. It’s like the floodgates have opened, and all the tears I suppressed in the past weeks have found their way to the surface. I’m bawling, heaving sobs of gratitude even though the ache of Edward’s loss grows sharper with each breath. I can’t fight the feeling that he should be here to see me through this, to help me get my life started…

Andy sort of cringes away from my display of emotion, so I try to calm down as well as I can. I want to thank him in words, but I know that I’ll cry harder if I try to speak. Instead, I place my hand on Andy’s knee and look into his soft blue eyes. Andy lightly pats my hand and I know he understands the sentiment. I rub my eyes with my wrists and get back to typing until I see that I’m about to be late for work.

With a kiss on Andy’s cheek, I’m off on my way to the subway. I’m skipping a bit, but on each tenth step or so I feel a specific stab of loneliness that causes me to stumble a bit. I’ve twisted both my ankles enough to dread a full shift on my feet by the time I get to the pancake house, and I’m late enough that I don’t have time to stop into the kitchen and talk with Jacob.

From the time we open to the time I’m off, the pancake house is packed for a Friday. I miss my second break, opting instead to keep a cigarette lit in the kitchen to suck on when I have a moment between calling out orders and delivering food to tables. Shirley and I both needed to use the can of deodorant spray we keep in Mr. Newton’s office to freshen up, and I even had to borrow Shirley’s compact to powder away some of the sweat on my brow during the shift. Jacob is wiped out too. We ride the bus and the subway home in silence.

As usual, Jacob follows me up the stairs to Edward’s apartment. Sometimes I let Jacob play Edward’s records, but today I’m not in the mood. Jacob is a good reader of body language, but he ignores all my usual tells that I don’t want to listen to music and pulls out a Sonny & Cher record. I tolerate about 10 seconds of “I Got You Babe” before I pull the needle off the record and turn the player off. I ignore Jacob and open up Edward’s book of the Manhattan Yellow Pages. Though the yellow pages aren’t even a year old, I don’t remember life without them. Alright, I do remember the days; they involved calling the operator a lot more frequently. I prefer finding the numbers myself. As I’m looking for an SAT center, Jacob drops the needle back on the record and Sonny & Cher are blasting through the apartment.

“Would you stop it!” I gripe at Jacob as I remove the pluck the needle off the record again and turn the player off. I turn back to the book.

I can hear Jacob messing around with the records again. I’m naive enough to believe that he’s perhaps returning the record to the sleeve and box, but then the upbeat horns and piano of The Supremes plays through the apartment.

_ “Ooh, baby love, my baby love…” _

I whip around, angry. 

“Jacob, I told you to knock it off,” I say. “I’m not in the mood.”

Jacob narrows his eyes at me but doesn’t turn the record player off. He raises his voice to be heard above the loud music.

“You were gone this morning when I woke up,” he says. “You’ve been acting strange all day.”

I stare at him. He hasn’t asked me a question, so I don’t feel bad about not responding to his points.

“Turn. It. Off.” I say. 

“Only if you’ll talk to me,” Jacob tries to bargain. I heave a great sigh and slam the book shut.

“Turn it off. Then you can talk.”

Jacob smiles and turns off the record player. I stare pointedly at the record on deck and Jacob puts on a big show of dusting it off, sliding in back into the sleeve, and setting the sleeve in Edward’s record box.

I look at him expectantly. I’m peeved with him, but I’m not quite sure why. Perhaps it’s that all my life I’ve been waiting for something, and today I feel closer to finding what that is. It feels like time to trim off the unnecessary fat in my life. I still long for Edward; I like Jacob, but all of a sudden it feels incredibly  _ wrong _ to let him hold me the way he does. He’s attractive but I don’t desire him. I want to think that he knows this on some level, and is fighting it, but looking at him head on right now I see something in his eyes that frightens me.

It’s the same thing I saw in Edward’s eyes the night before he left. It’s a look of hope and expectation. It’s a look of a promise. I see the future in Jacob’s eyes, but it’s not  _ my _ future. It’s the future he sees for himself… For us.

“Jacob…” I say, but I don’t know how to tell him that I can’t do this anymore.

“Bella,” he responds, playful. “You have to know I’m in love with you.”

My overworked heart breaks again. I don’t want the pain of hurting him on my shoulders. In some queer way I love Jacob; I love what he’s done for me, how he’s kept me company, how he’s never pushed me for anything at all. But I loved that Edward  _ did _ push me, and I miss him all the more for the ways he is different from Jacob. 

I don’t trust myself to respond to him. I’m a coward; all I can do is look away and bite my lip, trying not to cry. I want to beg him not to take away this friendship from me, but to my own surprise my cruelty doesn’t extend that far. I’ve made everyone else leave me, but I won’t do the same to Jacob.

“I get upset when you leave without telling me,” Jacob says. “I just want to be with you always, and it makes me sad when you’re gone.”

I bite my lip even harder and taste bile in my mouth. I don’t want to be with Jacob but I don’t want to lose someone else; all I wanted today was to start taking steps toward enrollment at Barnard… And here I am, thinking of debasing myself to keep someone I’m not in love with around even though I know that I’d leave in a heartbeat if it meant being with Edward again.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m still looking at the floor. 

Jacob moves to put an arm around me. His touch makes my skin crawl with discomfort but I push that aside and rest my head against his shoulder. If only I could talk to Alice about this. She’d give good advice. I already know what Rosalie would say: that I should kick Jacob to the curb, quit my job at the restaurant, and join her striptease shows. She makes twice as much money each week as I do, so the offer is tempting enough.

“I need a quiet afternoon,” I say to the floor. “I’m trying to find somewhere that I can take the SAT. I want to go to college.”

“Would you wait a year?” Jacob asks. His huge hand curls over the top of my head and twists it so I’m looking at him.

“What?” I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

“Would you wait a year before going to college?” Jacob repeats. “That way, we could go together. Find someplace that would let married students live together…”

“Married?!” My jaw drops and I goggle at him. Jacob shrugs, like this is the most obvious solution in the world.

“We could get married before we go. I’ll be 18 in 1968, but Dad would sign any papers we needed…”

I stare at Jacob in horror. I don’t know if I ought to laugh or cry. I never imagined I’d be proposed to, let alone in a manner so blasé.

“I want to go to college now,” I say firmly. “I graduated last year. I’d like to get out of college by 1970.”

Jacob shrugs again. 

“Just think about it,” he says. “Take the SAT now, fine, but think about waiting for me.”

I’m frozen where I’m sitting. The last thing I want is to think about marriage to Jacob, but I can’t help it. I feel Jacob’s eyes on me and I know he’s watching every emotion dance across my face.

“Bella,” he says softly. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met. You make me smile and try new things. You’re everything I want in a girl and then some. I love that you’re opinionated and fiery and you never hold your feelings back.”

_ Ha, _ I think to that.  _ You’ve only ever known me holding back half of everything I feel. _

“I would be a good husband to you,” Jacob continues. “We’ve only known each other two weeks but I know in my heart that I could be everything that you need. Just… think about it. Consider me.”

“I will,” I whisper. It’s the least I can do.

Jacob kisses me on the cheek and stands up.

“I’ll be downstairs, watching TV,” Jacob announces. “Remember that I work at the malt shop tonight. I’d like it if you stopped by.”

I nod absently and open the yellow pages again. First I call Barnard to find out how soon I can start college if I’m admitted. I’m thrilled when they tell me I can start as early as the end of August, when fall semester begins. I ask the office of admissions about accommodations for working students but they’re unable to tell me if I’ll be able to keep my job at the pancake house and study all the same. It plants a seed of worry inside my worry-fertile mind; even if Andy pays for my entrance, I’ll be responsible for paying for my classes, and my rent is already a burden. Thinking about rent further sours my thoughts on my findings; if Edward’s rent is due on the first of the month, he’ll be getting an eviction notice within the week after it goes unpaid. What could I possibly do with all his things? Won’t he want them? 

I roll and smoke a cigarette before I call the testing center I find in Manhattan. I am disappointed they only offer testing come September, after term begins, but they give me the number to a standardized testing center in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I call the Brooklyn center and I’m in luck; they offer a test on August 3rd. I’ve got 5 days to study. I have to make the most of it. 

I zip out of the apartment and race to the bookstore on Rivington and Pitt near Hamilton Fish Park. I spend $14 on their SAT Preparatory Book set-- a heinous sum for two thin books on the verbal and math sections of the test. I trade two rolled cigarettes to the cashier for a pencil and take the books with me to the nearby park and spend the rest of the afternoon going over numbers and equations with the math book.

By mid-evening, the heat of the day is relaxing a bit. I gather my books to my chest and ride the subway to Midtown to study in the cool air conditioning of the Factory. I make my office on the red couch, picking at a bit of murky crust left on the velvet. Since Rosalie and Emmett have become an item, I’ve caught them in the act of beginning to or finishing up making love a number of times. I feel revulsion at the thought that this coat of flaky remnants of something could be a product of the two of them, but also intrigued at the ingenuity of using a couch instead of a bed. When inebriated, Rosalie often pulls me close to her, pressing my cheek into her chest, and whispers tales of her coupling with Emmett. I’d never thought that the size of one’s partner could make intercourse more pleasurable, but Rosalie emphatically insists this to be true.

Emmett emerges from the Factory’s darkroom with a stack of photos. He looks surprised to see me here but smiles easily at me.

“The woman of the hour,” he says, sitting down next to my books on the couch. 

“Hi Emmett.”

Emmett looks over what I’m working on. “What’s all this about?”

I chew the end of my pencil. “I’m going to go to college,” I say. “I just have to get in.”

Emmett’s smile widens. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me to his side. It’s almost a fatherly hug, or brotherly. It feels so, so good.

“You’ll make a fine college student,” he says with real warmth in his eyes. 

“Thank you, Emmett,” I say. I rest my head against his shoulder for a moment, content. It’s nice to find feelings of home in other people; since Edward left, I’ve clung to them every chance I get. It’s part of why I can feel that I’ll give in to Jacob’s request. I just wish for more time. I hope against all other hope that Edward will come back before I do something I can’t undo.

While I’m thinking about Jacob and home and college, I’m struck by the memory that Father said Mother was living in Brooklyn. My test is going to be in Brooklyn. There’s no reason I shouldn’t find her while I’m across the Brooklyn Bridge. I don’t want to see her without Edward, which is a thought that strikes me as silly. 

I came to New York not to find anything, but to get away from the person I thought I was. It was just my luck that after 9 months I met Edward and everything that I like about my life fell into place. Sure, I’d met Andy and his friends in the months before, and I’d had Alice and Jasper and Rosalie, but I’d never had someone who wanted to care for me and take care of me and be playful with me and get to know me. Everyone prior to Edward only wanted one or two of those things. Here I have Jacob, who claims to want it all, but he’s so young… Which I know is ridiculous to say, since I’m only 17. It’s ridiculous that I let myself harbor feelings that Edward could be the one for me, since we’d only known each other for a month before he took off.

But I’ll be 18 soon enough. I’ll be on my own, for real, for good. When I think about my approaching birthday, I can imagine myself a college student, studying English with other like-minded girls at Barnard. I can see a world of possibilities that I’ll create on my own. These visions are tinged with the loneliness that comes when someone who seemed to know you so well without you needing to explain just vanishes. Not for the first time, I think,  _ I miss Edward. _

I feel Emmett tap my shoulder. I look up at him to see him watching me with curious eyes.

“Where’d you go, just now?” Emmett asks. I smile at him a little sadly.

“Off in my own head,” I respond. It’s enough for him, and I’m grateful for that.

“I found some pictures I thought you might like to see,” Emmett says. He flips over the stack of photographs he took from the darkroom. 

The first photograph is me with my face half in shadow. Tears streak my face and I’m topless. I immediately blush at the sight; it’s strange for me that  _ Emmett _ has seen my breasts, but they’re not the focus of the picture. The focus is on the glimmer of tears in my eyes.

The next photograph is still the same setting, but my finger traces a tear away from below my left eye. The pallor of my finger highlights the dark skin of my birthmark. I trace the edges of my birthmark in the photo with my index fingernail. Rosalie painted my nails the other day, a creamy pink color, and the color against the black and white photograph makes the contrast look even stranger.

In the third photograph, I’m looking directly at the camera. My tears are still glistening on my cheeks. My breasts are the clearest in this photograph; if you knew what you were looking for, you could make out the little mole on my right areola. The light on my face plays with my birthmark, makes it look darker. 

The photos are stark and unflinching. They show me at my most vulnerable but they don’t portray me as weak. It’s like I’m staring life in the face, daring it to try to break me. It’s ironic to look at these pictures when I feel my weakest… but I’m not at my weakest.

If Rosalie were here, she’d tell me that my weakest moment was when I was on the floor, crying for Edward. I don’t know if I agree with that; I know I have grit. I’ve lived through what felt like the worst case scenario several times in my life. I’ve been resilient enough to bounce back, albeit changed. Losing my mother made me a woman in the sense that it pushed me into the arms of a man, and losing him made me an adult. I feel anger flare inside me at the thought that I’ve made a life for myself in New York City and I’d even consider letting someone as insignificant as Edward Masen take that away from me.

But Edward isn’t insignificant. Above everything, he was my best friend. He accepted me unconditionally and wholly and he made me challenge ideas that felt like divine fact. When Mother left, I figured that I’d be one of the poor women who marry only to divorce later, but Edward made me question that belief. Edward was the kind of man-- perhaps the only man-- I could see myself committing to for life. I’ll be damned if I let him become more than that, even if all I ever get to have of Edward is the memories of our month together.

I let out a watery chuckle at the thought. I consider pledging myself to be a nun, reclaiming my virginity and never marrying. If I can’t have Edward, who feels like he was made for me, maybe I’ll take no other man. I don’t feel less sad, but I feel closer to freedom from the prison of despair over Edward. I might always miss him. But I won’t let myself deny what I want. It feels like time to go for it, and trust that even if it doesn’t work out,  _ I’ll _ work something new out. I want to believe in myself without the influence of another.

“Thank you, Emmett,” I say finally, when I’ve looked my fill. “I should probably get home.”

Emmett smiles and ruffles my hair-- hair that is four inches shorter, thanks to Rosalie who cut it when she painted my nails. It’s still a little too long to be stylish, but it makes me look a lot older than I feel. I kiss him on the cheek goodbye, and he does the same. 

“I love you,” I say when I’m at the door to the stairs. “I love you and Rosalie together. And I love Rosalie.” 

Emmett smiles bigger than I’ve ever seen before. “We love you too, little Stella,” he says. It makes me happy to hear it from a friend, just like it makes me happy to say it just because in the moment it feels true.

I feel a little guilty that I don’t visit Jacob at the malt shop on the way home, but I realize that I’ve not been alone for more than an hour or so since Edward left. In Seattle I was a solitary creature, although in New York I’ve become more social. Now, the best thing in the world would be a night all to myself. I decide that for the next twelve hours, I’m going to be alone. I’ll figure out excuses and some other plans tomorrow. 

I write a little note that I’m feeling ill and tack it to Edward’s front door when I get home, then I use the chain latch to lock myself in for the night. I want some peace and quiet and time to myself. I make myself some scrambled eggs for dinner and follow the eggs with cottage cheese mixed with canned pineapple. Dessert feels so luxurious when I’m eating it alone, listening to Paul Revere & the Raiders on Edward’s record player. 

When I’m finished with dinner and dessert, I rub my stomach in satisfaction… and also to explore my own body a little. I’ve gained weight since Edward left. It’s nothing too drastic, I don’t think, but my waitress dress does need to be belted a little looser than it did before. My friend Doris in Seattle always lost weight during times of stress, but I’ve been the opposite. When Mother left I gained ten pounds in a month and fought to lose that weight. I wasn’t entirely successful. The only thing that kept me from gaining when I got to New York was my limited budget. These days my stomach feels a little fluffier, my arms a little more hefty, my thighs spreading wider. I don’t think I like these changes, but I don’t hate them either; my breasts look much larger, spilling over my bras uncomfortably. I know I ought to buy new ones but I haven’t had the time away from Jacob to do so just yet. Rosalie wants to help me choose undergarments that will shape me “more attractively.” She thinks the new weight is good. She insists men like “a little something to grab onto.” Any talk of physical beauty with Rosalie is mortifying, because she’s so fabulously beautiful, but I tolerate it because she’s the older sister I always wanted.

I curl up in Edward’s bed with my splurge I allowed myself the other day:  _ Dune _ by Frank Herbert, which Mr. Banner told me not to read when it was released last year. He said it’d give me strange ideas. Larry, the only boy in my class who spoke to me despite the constant rumors that I was involved with Mr. Banner, absolutely raved about the book. Without Jacob to bother me with kisses and cuddles, I have the chance to finally delve into the book.

I must fall asleep with the light on, because the next thing I’m aware of is the clatter of the phone ringing in the living room. I’m foggy and disoriented, shaking with interrupted sleep as I pad out of the room to the phone. I don’t even look at the clock before I pick up the receiver.

“Hello?” My voice sounds scratchy and strange.

“Bella?” Alice’s frantic voice shakes me out of the funk of being woken unexpectedly.

“Alice?” I’m surprised to hear from Alice at all, let alone at this hour. “What time is it?”

We’re in different time zones but I think we might only be an hour apart. 

“Bella, can you come to Chicago?” 

“What?” I’m so disoriented by the question that I can’t formulate a more direct query. “Isn’t Jasper with you? What’s happened?”

I hear Alice sob on the line. “Bella, I found Edward,” she says.

My world stops. Everything feels fuzzy and buzzy, like I’m drunk and slowly tipping over to the side and I can feel the impact of the ground before it happens which just makes the actual impact that much worse. 

“What?” I whisper. “Edward is in Chicago?”

There’s a commotion on the phone, and then Jasper’s smooth voice comes through the line. It sounds tinny and hollow in the receiver.

“Edward’s in a bad way, Bella,” Jasper says. “I know he left you flat. You have every right to stay in New York and forget about this phone call. But if it’s in your heart to help Edward, would you mind terribly buying a train ticket and coming down? He’s hurting, real bad.”

I wouldn’t have considered  _ not _ coming until Jasper proposed it. Edward, hurting badly? How in the world was  _ I  _ feeling? I’d  _ been _ hurting for weeks now. Edward was only hurting just now? It all feels so unfair and so wrong. 

And then a mean idea comes over me. I  _ want _ Edward to hurt. I want him to suffer. I want him to doubt, to feel awful, to cry and feel as alone as I’ve felt. There’s no way I’ll go to Chicago. I open my mouth to say so but am interrupted. 

“Bella?” Now it’s Alice’s wild voice again. “Edward’s dad just died, just now.”

My heart breaks. Hopefully for the last time for a while. My resolve to make Edward hurt crumbles and tears come to my eyes. I can’t say anything; I’m too overcome with emotion.  _ Verklempt, _ my mother would say, although I don’t know why I’m thinking of her right now. And come to think of it, that word doesn’t sound particularly Italian, which is strange considering how German the word sounds…

“I’m on my way,” I say. Then the phone is passed and a woman’s voice greets me. I don’t recognize it; she’s clearly British. Maybe she’s an aunt of Edward’s?

“Hello, Bella, is it?” She says. “I’m Esme, Edward’s sister in law. Let me give you my address, so you’ll be able to come find us when you get into town.”

I listen in a daze and jot down her address and phone number so I can call when I get in. Edward never told me about an older brother. He mentioned a younger sister who died, but no brother.

I call Penn Station to ask about the next train to Chicago, but no one answers. I check the clock and see it’s past 11; my best bet will be to get on the train tomorrow morning. I gather all my money out from under Edward’s mattress where I’ve been hiding it and count it up: I have $135 in bills, mostly fives and tens. I know I have money back at the other apartment. I estimate it to be about $110. I don’t have enough for an airplane ticket and I’m not entirely sure I want to ride on a plane on my own; I’ve been terrified of plane crashes since Buddy Holly died. 

Grabbing my SAT books, I dash out of the apartment to run to my room across the park but trip over something just outside the door. I fall directly on my face and bite my lip badly. I’m afraid to run my tongue over my teeth in case I chipped a tooth, but when I do all my teeth seem to be intact, just painted with blood.

I realize I tripped over Jacob, dozing, sitting up waiting for me. The commotion wakes him from the uneasy sleep and he groggily helps me to sit up. He makes me lean my head back so he can look inside my mouth and up my nose for anything worse than a split lip.

“I think we should get you to a hospital,” Jacob says. “Your lip could need stitches.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, antsy to get going so I can catch the first train in the morning. 

“Where are you heading anyway?” Jacob asks. “Your note says you don’t feel well.”

“I have to go,” I say simply. 

Jacob looks at me like I’ve grown another head. 

“Where do you have to go?” He asks.

“Chicago.”

“What’s in Chicago? I thought you said you were from Washington.”

“I am,” I say. “But Edward needs me in Chicago and I have to go.”

A dark look comes over Jacob’s features. 

“What do you mean, Edward needs you?” Jacob demands. “Isn’t he the reason you’ve been so low? Didn’t he leave you down and out?”

I know Jacob doesn’t mean to, but he’s hurting my feelings. I wish I hadn’t talked about Edward at all, even though I only barely spoke of him. Edward did hurt me, but he needs me. Alice said so. Jasper said so. His sister-in-law said so. I just have to go.

“Yes, but--”

“No, there doesn’t need to be a ‘but,’” Jacob interrupts. “You have me, don’t you? I thought I made you happy.”

I can see the hurt in his eyes; it cuts through me like a freshly honed knife. I want to comfort him but it’s time to tell him that the offers he’s made me aren’t offers I could ever accept.

“You’ve made me happy, Jacob,” I assure him. “And I wish I could do the same for you.”

“Don’t you see? You do make me happy,” Jacob pleads. “Just being here makes me happy. Maybe I’m pushing it with the lovey-dovey stuff, and I’m sorry, but I want to be everything for you. Can you please let me do that?”

I refuse to let the budding tears flow. “I can’t be that woman for you, Jacob,” I say quietly. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

I push off the ground and stumble down the flights of stairs. I have my money with me in my pocketbook; at the apartment, I leave my rent payment in an envelope that I wedge in Jane’s door. I gather the rest of my money and toss my address book into a large purse that I appropriate from Alice’s room. I braid my hair into two plaits and change into the best traveler’s uniform I can imagine: a knee-length blue skirt, a white button-down blouse, and a light pink knit sweater that I ordered from the Sears Spring catalog. Despite the late hour, I decide to call Rosalie to let her know that I’m going to Chicago.

The phone is not in its place on the table by the couch. I feel a little disoriented as I search for it, only to find a new phone mounted on the wall. I’ve only used mounted phones in phone booths; dialing from the wall separating the kitchen from the living space feels exotic and very grown up. 

It’s past midnight now but Rosalie is still awake. She answers on the first ring. Sometimes I imagine her lounging on her bed, luxuriously smoking a cigarette from the genuine ivory cigarette holder of hers, just waiting on the phone for gentlemen callers. 

“Rosalie, I have to go to Chicago in the morning,” I hiss into the phone, careful to not wake Jane or Bree with my talking.

“Whatever for?” Rosalie drawls. I can hear movement around her; she must have snuck Emmett up to her room. Though the Hotel Chelsea doesn’t forbid unmarried guests of opposite sex from staying together, Rosalie likes to uphold a facade of genteel chastity. I believe she and Emmett are considering finding an apartment to share, but sometimes she gets so haughty about his income and what they’d be able to afford that it seems unlikely.

“Edward’s in Chicago. He needs me,” I say.

“What?!” Rosalie’s screech makes me pull the receiver away from my ear. “Why would you ever consider going back to that bastard?”

“Rosalie, his--”

“Now, I don’t care if that asshole has grown another head! He  _ needs _ you? What a joke!”

I cringe at her words. “Listen, Rose--”

“No,  _ you _ listen, little Stella. He left you broken down flat. He gave you  _ no indication _ that he was going to leave you when he did, and he left you to sort out his apartment and everything. How in the world could you consider traveling  _ out of state _ to help a man like that?”

“Rosalie, it’s not like that,” I say indignantly. “There are pieces to the story that we’re both missing, maybe if you come with me--”

“How do I say this politely?” Rosalie asks snarkily, rhetorically.  _ “Hell _ no! There’s nothing you could say that would drag me to Chicago alive if it meant going to see a man so low as all that!”

“Don’t go for him, go for me,” I plead. “You’d be a help--”

“Oh, so that’s all I am to you! The HELP!” Rosalie laughs without humor. It’s a nasty sound. “Well, here comes my best advice, may it  _ help _ you: a woman who goes running back to a man who mistreats her is no better than that man. You’re dead in my book.”

I stand at the wall with the phone still pressed to my ear long after the resounding clang of her receiver being slammed down sounds.

My world has fluctuated so drastically this past month that I wonder how I’ll ever go on. It seems like I might blink and not exist anymore, or I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream. I wonder where my life stopped and the dream began; was it the day the President was assassinated? The day my mother left? The day Mr. Banner invited me to his home, the day he pulled me into bed? The day I left for New York? Or was it the day I met Edward? Being with Edward was like living the best dream I could have imagined… and being without him has been a nightmare. When did everything become so unbelievable?

Am I meant to be loyal to Rosalie, whom I’ve known longer than Edward? She’s disappointed me before but she was steadfast when I needed her, but I don’t know if wanting to go to Edward is really a betrayal. I can understand why she feels that my desire to run to him is painful and unacceptable to her, but I can’t bring myself to see it as unforgivable. This reasoning prompts me to feel that Edward leaving isn’t unforgivable, although I feel hesitant to allow him back into my life in the same vein that he had been. He broke my trust when he left me. But I feel such a strong line tying the two of us together despite the distance…

It’s clear that the sentiment I hold for Edward is love. That I love him top to bottom, that he’s no longer his own separate person but a part of me; going to him is self preservation, in a way. I also love Rosalie, deeply and unreservedly. She’s pushed me past my own barriers just like Edward has. I’ve survived losing a mother, but that was when I was a girl. Each day I’ve been without Edward, it’s become clearer and clearer that I’m a woman now. 

And so I make my choice: I will go to Chicago. I will help Edward, even if it means I leave him behind. I will come back to New York and take the SAT and go to Barnard and fight for Rosalie’s friendship. And along the way, I will find my mother and show her what a formidable woman I’ve become; I’ll show her what she missed out on when she left me. I’ll show everyone that I need no one, that I am capable of doing it all on my own.

This force of will accompanies me on the subway to Penn Station. It propels me to pay the $12 ticket to Chicago. It enables me to call Emmett from the pay phone at Penn Station and tell him that Edward’s apartment is available for him to rent, if he’d like to find a place that he doesn’t have to share, and that he’s free to move Rosalie in with him if he’ll only keep hold of Edward’s things until I return and decide what to do with them. Emmett thanks me and says he’ll take over the lease; I leave Edward’s key at the ticket booth with a description of Emmett and a note to check his identification before they give him the key. As I board the train, I think I catch a glimpse of Emmett running into the station to collect the key. I imagine him watching my train depart and waving me on.

When I arrive in Chicago, I remember that I haven’t called Mr. Newton to tell him of my absence at work. I hope he’ll forgive me… but I know I’ll be fine if he doesn’t. Maybe I’ll get a job at the Bitter End or the Village Gate as a cocktail waitress if I can’t work at the pancake house. I trust my own resourcefulness to make it work either way.

I call the phone number of Edward’s sister in-law and agree to meet her at Edward’s childhood home. I take a taxi there because even though I’m resourceful, I don’t want to lose my way in an unfamiliar city. It’s a bit of a ride there and it’s night; I float between awe and trepidation at seeing a strange new city. My stomach is tight with nerves and at each stoplight I worry I might fall to pieces.

Finally we pull up behind a blue Pontiac and the cab driver tells me we’re here. I pay the fare and look at the house for a while before I cautiously walk to the steps. The house looks larger than my home in Seattle; the door is sturdy paneled wood, the knob brass and recently polished. My home had a nickel doorknob. The disparity in wealth further weakens my stomach and I have to catch my breath before I knock on the door. I don’t know who will answer, if I’ll see Edward right away, if he knows I’m coming. If he’ll be receptive to me. I don’t even know what’s needed from me to help him cope with the loss of his father.

When I summon the courage to knock, the door is immediately opened by a woman with reddish hair and a kind face. She’s heavily pregnant, dressed in the unflattering shift dress that seems to be the uniform of pregnancy these days. 

“You must be Bella,” she says, her voice prettier in person than the pleasant one on the phone. “Alice has told me so much about you.”

“Hi,” I say. I sound out of breath and feel a little lightheaded. 

“I’m Esme. Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea,” she invites. “I’ll introduce you to my husband.”

I follow her in and she has me sit on a sophisticated green couch. She disappears into a back room-- the kitchen, presumably-- and comes back with a cup of tea in a saucer and a man who looks a bit like Edward. Edward is more angular than this man, who is a little shorter, a little softer around the edges with a rounder head. His hair is the kind of blond Rosalie strives for, and his eyes are blue instead of green.

“Hello, Bella,” he greets. “I’m Carlisle.”

“Edward’s brother?” I ask. I accept the tea and sit down. Carlisle and Esme take the two sitting chairs by the couch; Carlisle reaches over his arm rest to rub Esme’s big belly. I see the look she gives him, one of genuine devotion. It warms my heart but further twists my churning guts. Internally I’m a mess, but I think I’m holding it together alright.

Carlisle and Esme chat with me idly about the work they do at St. Luke’s Hospital and how they like America. Every minute that passes turns the key of anxiety further, makes me shakier and shakier from my seat on the couch. Right when I’m about to ask what it is I’m doing in Chicago-- since asking where Edward is would be too painful-- the front door opens.

Carlisle, Esme and I all rise to our feet to greet the guest. For a split second, I don’t recognize that the man who just entered is Edward; he’s grown so thin and gaunt and bearded, his hair oily and limp. But in the light of the house lamps he’s still beautiful. He looks so different but he’s still very clearly my Edward. 

“I don’t see what the problem with the house is, Carlisle, I told you I’d be at his office for the reading of the will--” Edward cuts himself off from speaking; he talks with a cigarette clamped between his teeth. He’s got my bag with him and his camera is on a cord around his neck, but there’s no lens or flash attached. It feels like there are pieces missing to this image of the man I love before me. 

He’s looking at me like I’m a mirage in the desert, not really here before him. He makes a choked sound from his throat. The rest of the world melts away in this instance; it’s just the two of us, floating through time and space, eyes locked on one another. I don’t think either of us move for a long time.

“Bella came from New York,” Esme says unnecessarily. It breaks the spell that holds us captive. Edward drops his-- my-- bag to the floor and steps towards me. The cigarette falls from his open mouth and lands on the wood floor; for a moment I’m worried it will catch fire but it doesn’t. I’m terrified that he’ll push or strike me, that he’ll scream at me to leave. I’m barely breathing when he sinks to his knees on the floor before me like he simply cannot go on.

I do the most natural thing in the world: I pull him close to me. He presses his face into my stomach, wraps his arms around my thighs and lets out a sob. I curl my arms around him as best as I can from where I’m standing, stroking his shoulders and carding my fingers through his hair. I feel his tears soak through my skirt but I let him just keep holding onto me. I can feel my fortitude keeping me strong and unflinching as I comfort this man whom I love. Though I’ve hurt for days and weeks without him, the feeling of him with me right now creeps through me and eases that ache. Neither of us know what tomorrow brings, but I know that if I’m by his side I’ll be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song is “Don’t Slip Away” by Jefferson Airplane. Great song, great band from the West Coast. Give it a listen!
> 
> A note on Andy’s generosity: Andy Warhol was generous with ideas and employment but relatively stingy with money following an audit by the IRS in 1972. He became paranoid about going to prison for tax evasion, a crime for which there’s considerable doubt that he was guilty. He kept an incredibly detailed diary after the audit, noting expenses down to the dime.
> 
> The Underwood Touch-Master was a typewriter made by the Underwood company. To be a secretary in the 1960s, you had to keep up a high word-per-minute typing rate. Most places that hired secretaries used electric typewriters, but Bella is practicing on a manual. (Edward owns a typewriter: a used Smith-Corona Speedline portable.)
> 
> The Yellow Pages were introduced in late 1965. Cool, huh?
> 
> I couldn’t find a ton of information about test prep books for the SAT in thee 60s. Forgive me for taking creative liberties.
> 
> Wall-mounted telephones in homes became more and more popular towards the end of the 1960s. They started gaining popularity in 1966, so using one at home would have been a novelty for Bella.
> 
> Money conversion note: $1 in 1966 in New York City is roughly equivalent to $8 today. This isn’t a 100% accurate rate, since the societal value on objects, modes of transportation, and survival necessities fluctuates. For example, the Minolta SRT-101 camera that Edward uses cost $99 in 1965; to buy the same model today costs $50-100(used, of course: Minolta as a camera company shut down in 2006). To buy a camera at a similar professional level today, you can find run of the mill cameras starting at about $450, but some run upwards of tens of thousands of dollars. 
> 
> Bella doesn't have a checkbook or bank account, because women could only get bank accounts through their husbands or fathers. In Washington, Bella would have been banking with Washington Mutual, a statewide bank chain that closed in 2008. I grew up with WaMu; it was a great little bank chain but it would have been difficult for Bella to deposit her checks there while living across the country with no husband or father nearby. Thus, she's only got cash.
> 
> As always, let me know if there are any historical things you want clarified! I love reviews :)


	13. Time Won't Let Me

**July 31, 1966**

**Chicago**

**Edward**

I’d thought about my father’s death a great deal during my life. From birth, Ma drilled Pa’s mortality into me; he deployed for war before I was a year old and Ma made him update his service registry in front of me to remind me how committed to serving this country he was. In the darker days of our relationship, when he beat me for the smallest of infractions, I even fantasized about his death. I thought about how I’d stand emotionless in front of his casket at the funeral, how after he was nice and buried he’d never cross my mind again. But in the hours since I learned of his death, he’s virtually all I can think of.

It’s strange, being an orphan. I’m not an important orphan in that I’m closer to 30 than I am to 18, but I’m an orphan nonetheless. I have no living parents. Carlisle-- my brother-- has a mother back in England, and a stepfather, and a half brother as well. He told me I’d be welcome to come to England when he and Esme return for a visit, that his mother would greet me like a son, but I said no. I already had a mother and I miss her more than ever. I feel a painful numbness, a visceral lack of constructive feelings at the thought that she’s buried here in Chicago beside my sister. Pa will join them in a few days. I won’t be in attendance.

The only feeling I can compare this to is how I felt upon learning of my older sister, Florence. Losing something you weren’t aware you had creates a specific type of pain. It’s the kind of pain that you think will kill you, that you almost hope it does because everything else feels insignificant. Still, somehow, some way, life continues on. Time works its way through your feelings and while minutes last years the hours melt away. It’s paradoxical and confusing and altogether a mystery nobody wants to solve.

Upon learning of my father’s death, I bolted. I stepped to Esme’s side and took off into the night. I ran to Wrigley Field before I had to stop to wheeze; smoking as much as I have been lately really makes breathing hard. I ought to cut back. 

I ran from Wrigley back towards the YMCA but stopped in a bar in Lake View. I got a seat at the bar and knocked back some whiskey before ordering a draft beer. I sipped the beer slowly, feeling sorry for myself when I felt someone behind me.

“Excuse me,” said a young woman. “I have to ask you where you’re from. You’re from Scotland, aren’t you?”

I turned around to see a girl with dark hair looking at me expectantly. She wore a lot of makeup; green color around her brown eyes, a pale orangish pink over her mouth, overly blushed cheeks. Or maybe the red cheeks were from the alcohol. I couldn’t tell. She was a babe and she was clearly keen. 

“No,” I said flatly. “My old man was from England. Ma came from Europe, some mix of countries, I think.”

“Your hair made me think Scotland,” she said. She hoisted herself onto the barstool beside me.

“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t all that interested in talking with her, but she was content to tell me about herself. Her name was Beverly. She worked as a secretary at a law office. She liked mint juleps but no one in Chicago could make a julep like you could get at the Kentucky Derby. She loved horses.

When I paid for my drinks, she put her hand on my arm. “Why don’t you come to my place for a cup of coffee?” She proposed. I looked at her hand, at her knobby knuckles.

It would’ve been easy, going with her. I wanted to  _ want _ to go with her. Before I met Bella I’d have jumped at a woman throwing herself at me, but thinking of Bella made me even more morose. If I squinted she sort of looked like Bella with her dark hair and eyes, but I didn’t have any sense of eroticism with her. I couldn’t tell if that was because my father had just died or because I missed Bella. 

I shrugged her hand off me and left her behind. Walking back to the YMCA, I thought about Bella and my father and how they’d never meet. Bella would never be able to meet my family because I had none. And why in the world would Bella want me anymore? The complete metamorphosis into my father was due any day now, following his death; I was a liar, a miserable bastard, a cheat, a murderer… I could hardly stand to think of myself, let alone think of Bella with me.

In thinking about all that, I realized that the profound feeling of emptiness I felt at the loss of my father wasn’t because I missed him. It was because I’d had a family I was cultivating in New York and I’d thrown it away. I pissed away my chance to confront my father with Carlisle. Once I ran out of money, I would have nothing left in the world.

At the YMCA, I called Carlisle and Esme’s boarding house and left a message with the landlady that I’ll go to the reading of my father’s will but nothing else. They could leave a message at the front desk to tell me when it’d take place.

I stumbled up to my room and crashed face down in my bed. I slept fitfully and ignored the repeated knocks on my door. When it was dark out and I was more rested than when I fell asleep, I went down to the front desk and accepted the message that someone’d been trying to leave for me all day: that Carlisle needs me to come to the house.

I didn’t want to go. If I’m honest, all I wanted was to find somewhere to fall asleep and sleep forever. It felt radically unfair that just last year I had a living mother and father and now I had none. It was unbelievable that everything I was born into slipped through my fingers and I hated myself for throwing away the things I made for myself. 

I puttered around North LaSalle Street before heading west towards Irving Park. I chewed my cigarette filters more than usual and ended up stopping to scrape the pulp from my tongue twice. I contemplated picking up some Juicy Fruit but I figured it’d taste awful on top of the smokes. Anger was the only way I could face my life at the moment. It seemed inappropriate for me to be weepy and depressed over my father. I needed to take it like a man and suck it up, but every time I tried I just felt too raw and exposed. When I reached my old house, I paced the street for a bit before I gathered my wits and got angry enough to go inside.

I stormed through the door, yelling about something-- and then there she was. In the flesh, right in front of me: Bella, my Bella. All was not lost.

Bella let me cry. I held her around her knees and sobbed like a child missing his mother. Every pass of her hand through my hair made me feel like one day things might be alright, and after a long while I calmed down enough to stand up and really look at her.

Her eyes were red and watery. I felt lucky that she let me put my hands to her face to brush tears off her cheeks; I deserved no kindness from her, yet she treated me with such devoted tenderness. 

“We have all of tomorrow to talk,” she whispered when I tried to ask her why she was here, how she came. “Let me just hold you now.”

“Bella, can I make up the bed for you?” Esme asked. “We didn’t quite get everything settled ahead of time. It’s all been so sudden…”

Bella looked at me uncertainly. 

“I don’t want to overextend my welcome,” she said in a low voice, turning from me. I clutched her hands tightly and wished I could erase the hurt I’d caused her. It physically pained me that she was uncertain and doubting of how I felt for her.

“Bella can have my bedroom,” I said. “I have my room at the YMCA, I’ll go back--”

“Please don’t go,” Bella whispered. She met my eyes and I felt something in me break. 

“I--”

“Please,” Bella whispered again. I tried to mask the sob that was threatening to come up with a cough. Esme turned her head to give us a bit of privacy as I pulled Bella to my chest and held her tightly. 

“We can stay in my old room,” I said to Carlisle. I didn’t want to look at Esme and presume that she’d be alright with unorthodox sleeping arrangements. Esme didn’t seem to mind; she carried my bag to my old bedroom before turning in for the night in my parents’ room. Carlisle left us for a moment before coming back to the living room with towels.

“Please make yourself at home, Bella,” he said. “I expect we’ll get working on things in the morning.”

When he left the room, the air changed. Bella and I couldn’t tear our eyes from one another. We must have sat in silence for a long time before nature called and I needed to use the bathroom. Without asking whether she could or me requesting her company, Bella joined me in the bathroom, averting her gaze as I lifted the toilet seat to do my business. I watched the door as she took a shower, and she did the same for me. It was like we couldn’t stand to not breathe the same air.

I stripped off my reeking shirt and slacks. My semi-clean clothes were for tomorrow; tonight I’d have to make do in my boxers, but even those were smelling pretty ripe. Bella turned from me to undress, but evidently didn’t pack much in the way of pajamas. She turned back to face me in only her underpants.

Standing in my boyhood bedroom with her breasts exposed, wet hair dripping down her back, the moonlight casting stark shadows on her frame, Bella was the ultimate vision of beauty. She’d gained some weight in our time apart, softening her shape to the point where it looked downright fluffy, like clouds or cotton candy. I wanted to lick the skin of her ribcage. Bella was positively delicious. My mouth watered and my groin was hot and tense. I could have taken her right then and there, standing up against the wall. I dropped my boxers to get some air circulating on my little soldier, and to be as exposed as she was.

Bella motioned with her head for me to lie down in the bed and I did. I scooted all the way over to the wall to make room for her to lie down. Absently I rubbed at the base of my penis, salivating over whether she’d lie down on top of me or lay flat and pull me over her.

But Bella did neither. She crawled into the bed and rolled on her side to look at me. She stroked my face for a bit; her touch gave me the shivers, warming my skin from the spot where she touched outwards. I closed my eyes to relax into the sensation. Bella traced patterns right next to my eye for a few minutes before gently pushing my shoulder to roll me away from her. I was blissed out by her touch. I let her tug me around to position me so I was curled up like a fern. When she wrapped herself around me, cradling me, I felt like I could finally exhale.

I wake to the sun pushing through the curtains in my room. I can see dust motes swirling through the air in the light. I’m sleepily disoriented; I can hardly place myself in the world, though I know I’m in my boyhood bed. The heat in the room is manageable but under the covers everything feels steamy from sweat and wet bodies against sheets.  _ Bella.  _ I roll over to see her face but she’s not in the bed.

Before I can panic, the door to my room opens and Bella walks in wearing the same clothes she wore yesterday. Tucked under an arm is a bundle of clothing, and she has a cup of tea in her hand. I sit up and accept the tea from her, taking a scorching gulp that leaves me coughing, nursing a burned tongue. Bella rubs my back as I get my breath, then she leans her head over my shoulder and kisses my bare skin with the lightest of touches.

I want to lean into the touch, but it’s gone before I can. Bella watches me with huge eyes that hold both compassion and bitter hurt. I could kiss it all away but I can sense that wouldn’t be welcome.

“I want to hear you tell me why you left me,” Bella murmurs. “But I also want to tell you about what you left behind.”

It feels like my heart stops. I was foolish to fantasize that returning to Bella would make my life fall back into step, that all would be forgiven without a verbal apology. I don’t know what I have to say to her. In all my thoughts about her, I just assumed she’d already know.

As if she’s reading my thoughts, Bella begins to speak.

“We’re a lot alike, you and I. But there’s a lot we missed out on when you left me. And I need to hear it to understand.”

My chest tightens. It’s like I can see the future, all written out in front of me: Bella will leave me, I will stay in Chicago, she’ll grow old and happy and I will die alone.

“I want to marry you,” I blurt out. Whatever she was expecting me to say, it’s not that.

“That’s why you left me?” She asks. She sounds incredulous but willing to believe me if I can provide a backstory.

“No-- I mean-- I--” I stumble over what to say next. I just want to secure her as mine forever, so I try again. “Marry me,” I say eventually.

“I can’t marry you,” Bella says. “I won’t marry someone I don’t understand. And I don’t understand how all this happened.”

“I want you to marry me,” I say again. Each time I say it, the idea of marriage gets more solid in my mind. I’d never really thought about it before Bella, but now that I’ve met her and she came after me, I can’t shake it. I want to be married, and I want Bella as my wife.

“Edward, I can’t,” she says again. 

“You’ll be eighteen soon,” I remind her. “You can marry me on your birthday. Please, Bella,” I nearly beg.

“No,” she says firmly. “You’re being irrational. I’m trying to talk to you about  _ why you left me _ and you’re trying to avoid explaining by being ridiculous.”

I’m taken aback by what she’s saying. I’m not trying to avoid talking… Although, maybe I am. It’s like the time we spent apart was just one long testament to me about what life would be like if I lose her, and now that she’s back and I finally feel human again I’ll do anything to prevent that. I can’t accept her refusal.

“Drink your tea,” she says patiently. “It’s getting cold.”

I take another sip of my tea and am almost moved to tears at it; Bella made my tea  _ exactly _ how I like it. As strong as my father brewed it, but with as much milk as my mother would add. Plus a tiny hint of sweetness. I want to kiss Bella to taste the sweet anise honey of her lips, but I settle for taking another drink of tea.

“I’ll start, then,” Bella says. “I think you should know what happened when you left.

“I have no understanding as to what I did that set you off. The night before you left, everything seemed fine, almost wonderful. You made me feel so cared for when you stood up to Rosalie for me. I don’t know if I’ve ever said it so plainly, but no one has done that for me. Ever.” 

Bella takes a deep breath and waits for me to take another drink of tea before talking again.

“So to go from everything being fine to you refusing to talk to me or tell me what was going on was terrible. Horrible. Leaving me is fine-- everyone does. But leaving that way… I don’t know if that’s something I can just forgive. 

“I was alone in your apartment with no promise that you’d ever be back, no news about where to find you, no word on why you had to go. I felt like my life was over. I don’t think you know just how upset I’ve been.”

Bella pauses. She looks at me as if waiting for me to speak, but when I don’t, she continues.

“I met someone.”

I choke on the tea and nearly hack up a lung coughing. Bella goes on, unsympathetic.

“He proposed.”

My eyes bug out of my head. That’s why she refused me-- she’s already engaged. I want to argue with her about it being too soon, about how deep I feel our bond is, but how much more should I be allowed to torture this girl? I truly hate myself, and wish I had died in place of my father.

“I don’t love him. I don’t want to marry him. But I think if you understood how truly alone I was when you left, you’d see why his proposal makes more sense than you telling me to marry you does.”

I can’t bear it anymore. I blink away furious tears and set the teacup down to grip my hair with both hands, tugging at the roots. The pain in my scalp is only slightly grounding against this whirlpool of frustration and upset this conversation has brought. I feel so impotent against this rage directed at myself, at this mystery man. How can I possibly make Bella see that I left for her own good, to save her from myself?

“The time I spent without you taught me something, though,” Bella continues. “I know what I want now. I want to go to college. I’m taking the SAT on Wednesday in Brooklyn. Andy offered to pay for my entrance into Barnard, and I’m going to go.”

The pride I feel at the surety in her voice is like whiplash from the pain of her suffering. I can’t keep myself from reaching for her, just to touch her.

“Bella, that’s incredible news, I’m so happy for--”

But Bella moves from my touch, avoiding me. 

“I can’t let you back in just yet, Edward,” she says, looking at her hands. I see a tear slip out of her eye and trace the edge of her birthmark on its way down her cheek. “I need to understand why you left before I can decide if I want you in my life.”

“Then why did you come?” I ask hoarsely. “Esme called, or Alice called-- why would you come if you don’t want me in your life?”

Bella looks at me again. Her eyes are swimming with tears and feeling, but malice or unkindness aren’t present. 

“Because I love you,” she says brokenly. “I love you, and although you broke my heart, I can’t bear to let you suffer alone.”

A sob escapes my mouth and I clamp a hand over it to try to keep further cries in. Bella is crying too; without either of us realizing, we’re moving closer together and then my arms are around Bella and hers are around me. We hold each other and cry for our own pain, for each other’s pain, for doing things that hurt one another. It’s awful and painful and healing at the same time. 

When Bella turns her head to rest her ear against my shoulder, I pull away. 

“I don’t know how to say my piece,” I say. My voice is such a wreck. I’m a mess. I’m naked under the sheet and my beard is itchy and everything is heavy. 

“Try,” Bella encourages. She holds my hand loosely and rubs her thumb across mine. It’s not enough, not even close, but I’ll take what I can get.

“I left because I had to,” I say. I want to leave it at that but Bella’s eyes harden a bit.

“Try harder,” she pushes. I sputter on a sigh and ask her about what she already knows.

“I got a call from Alice the other night, saying that you were here in Chicago and you needed me. She passed the phone on to Esme, who introduced herself as your sister-in-law, but I’d thought you only had a younger sister. They made you sound like you were in pretty rough shape, so I came on the train in the morning. Rosalie told me not to come, but I did.”

That must have been after I took off running. I wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed; would they have called Bella for me? Would she have talked to me? Would I be back in New York?

I think my questions read clearly in my eyes, because Bella cups my cheek with the hand that isn’t holding mine.

“It’s not fair to lose your parents so young,” Bella says. “It isn’t right.”

My lip trembles at the sentiment.

“It’s not fair,” I echo.

Finally, I draw up the backbone to confess everything to Bella.

“My sister Martha died eight years ago,” I say. Bella nods; I’ve told her before. “I called her Maggie. She was four years younger than me. I killed her.”

Bella jolts in shock, ripping her hand from mine. 

“What?!” Her voice is breathless with shock.

“Ma told me to keep an eye out for my sister while she went to teach a piano lesson, but I didn’t want to bother with Maggie. I told her to leave me alone while I read my stupid comic books. I’d just gotten the final edition of  _ This Magazine is Haunted _ and the second edition of the new  _ Space Adventures. _ I just wanted to read and be left alone.

“Maggie begged me to push her on the tire swing in the backyard, but I told her to beat it. I just read those dumb comics until Ma called home and told me to get Maggie working on supper since she was running late with her lessons. I went out looking for Maggie… it was May, and there was a breeze, so I thought she was just kind of swaying in the swing… but she’d slipped or something. She hung herself with the swing, or maybe she broke her neck while falling out of the tire. I never read the coroner’s report. But Maggie was only 12 and my responsibility. If I’d been with her she never would’ve died.”

Bella’s eyes fill with tears and she doesn’t hold them back. She’s not looking at me like I’m a killer; she’s looking at me with compassion, with an understanding.

“Oh, Edward,” she says. “How could that possibly be your fault?”

“It is, though,” I insist. “I called my Pa the night before I left New York. Carlisle answered. I’d never heard of him before, but he told me that he came to Chicago from England to look for his father-- my father. My dad left England in 1935, where he had a wife and children, because he killed my older sister.”

My voice breaks as I say the last part. I keep talking. 

“Pa was a terrible man to live with. He was always yelling, always looking for a fight. He’d use his belt any chance he got. He spared Maggie every time. Once, when Ma spanked both me and Maggie for stealing from the sugar bowl, he beat her so bad she had to cancel her piano lessons for the week for her bruises to fade.”

Bella wraps her arms around her middle, like she’s trying to hold herself upright. 

“Even though all signs pointed to him hating me, Pa always talked about how he wanted me to be like him. He wanted me to go to law school and take up practice with him. I was too sensitive for all that, too much of a panty-waist, and I never wanted to be like him. So finding out that he killed a sister I never knew I had made it all real for me: that no matter how hard I tried to be a different person, all I could ever do is become him. And I could never do that to you-- I never want to hurt you. I would die before I ever beat you or hurt you. I had to get away from you, to save you from myself.”

Bella’s lower lip juts out. If I weren’t feeling so miserable, I’d want to taste it. This is the most naked and exposed I’ve been in front of Bella, ever. Come to think of it, this is the most exposed I’ve ever been: I’m bearing my soul here. I feel like such a nork and I want to puff out my chest and appear macho to her, to show her I can fight and provide for her, but the look she’s giving me is telling me that I’m safe despite how shaky it all feels. With Bella it’s okay that I’m not all that I want to be all the time.

“Come here,” Bella whispers, opening her arms to me. I fall into them and let her rock me. It feels so good and warm to be held close that I zone out for a bit, coming back to myself to hear Bella humming against the top of my head. I smile against her chest where I’m tucked in.

“Doo Wah Diddy,” I say, hoping that Bella is playing our game again.

“Yeah,” she says. She hums a little more but pauses when I start to sing softly.

“Whoa-oh, I knew we was falling in love…”

I pull away from the crash pad of Bella’s body and we share a sad little smile. 

“My whole life, I’d never heard about Carlisle or the sister that died in England. He abandoned them. I worried I’d do the same to you.” I take a deep breath. “But now that you’re here, I promise I never will abandon you. I swear.”

Bella frowns a little. “Edward, you  _ did  _ abandon me.”

I feel like I’ve been socked in the stomach. I try to argue. 

“No, I didn’t--” 

“But you did. You stayed out all night and came home in the morning to gather your things, tell me you were a fraud, and leave. No forwarding address or anything. I had no way to get in touch with you.”

Bella looks pained. She rubs her eyes and looks at the floor.

“I found your father’s number when I went to speak with your boss. I made up some excuse about why you couldn’t work… I couldn’t watch you throw away your career just like that.”

“Pa mentioned that someone called him from work,” I remember out loud. “I talked to Mr. Molina after that. He said I could come back on some conditions…”

“Edward, I called your father. I told him to tell you to call work. It was the most I could do with no clues about where you were.”

The revelation hits me harder than Bella accusing me of abandoning her. I’m almost angry, but at what I don’t know. My instinct is to be mad at Bella but she didn’t do anything wrong. Come to think about it, if  _ she _ left me the way I left her, I might have not been able to hold it all together. My time in Chicago has shown that I barely hold it together on my own. And considering how long I’d lived in New York and how much of that time I was financially solvent and not starving half to death, I’d barely held it together there. I’d only been living on my own, without housemates or a live-in landlord since March. Come to think of my apartment…

“Bella, my apartment--”

“Emmett wants to take over your lease,” Bella interrupts. “And I agreed. He’s willing to keep your things there until I come back to the city to decide what to do with it.”

I feel both relieved and stumped about what to do next. 

“I don’t know where this leaves us,” Bella says. “But I do know one thing: you didn’t kill your sister, Edward.”

I shake my head at her. “I did, though, I was responsible--”

“No one can prevent an accident,” Bella argues. “Your sister was playing on a swing that had rope. Ropes are dangerous. My father never let me play on rope swings because he worried I’d get hurt or killed. His neighbor died that way and he said it couldn’t happen to me. But I still managed to get hurt as a child. As a little, little girl, I almost drowned while I was with both my parents. You can’t blame yourself.”

“You never told me that,” I accuse.

“I only remembered it recently. It was so frightening, to be so close to death. I think I had to wait until I was strong enough to face it, and being with you did that.” Bella looks me over carefully. “It took losing you to find a big part of myself. Not just the drowning; lots of other things.”

I think my heart tentatively breaks hearing Bella say that losing me meant finding parts of herself. Does that mean she doesn’t want me anymore? 

“Bella,” I start, but get too choked up to continue. I clear my throat and try again.

“Bella, I… I’ve been such a bastard. I’m so, so sorry.”

Bella nods at me. She tucks a lock of hair behind her left ear, exposing more of her birthmark. I look at it in a new light; it’s almost like the shape of a country on the globe, but I couldn’t pick which one. Her hair is shorter and wavy, not its usual straight. The midmorning light coming through the window exposes Bella in an entirely new way, with the light reflecting off her hair and face like a glowing halo. Her hair almost has a red undertone to it, despite being so dark it could be almost black. 

Beautiful doesn’t even do her justice. I hope she can see the reverence in my eyes as I look at her. Not for the first time, I’m overcome with emotion. I want to prostrate myself at her feet, to worship at her altar and beg for forgiveness. I want to spend years loving her body and a lifetime loving her mind. I want to fly us back to New York, to the city that brought us together and write a love letter to God for putting me in her path. I want to marry her at the Factory. I want to be forgiven.

“I’m so sorry, Bella,” I repeat. I start to cry in earnest. I fold at the waist and bury my face in her lap. “I’m so sorry.”

Hours seem to pass, but eventually I feel the most welcome of sensations: a light scratch at my scalp. Bella’s nails in my hair.

When I’ve calmed down enough, I sit back up and wipe my face on the back of my hand. Bella pushes the pile of clothes at me.

“Get dressed,” she says. “Come and sit in the living room with me and we can talk about what tomorrow looks like.”

Upon Bella’s exit I look at the clothes she handed me. They’ve been washed and pressed. I’m touched that she would go to the effort of cleaning my clothes and preparing them for me; it makes my heart melt even more for her. I almost wish she’d stop being so perfect because then I’d be saved from this predicament I’m in. Dissolving every time someone shows me kindness. What garbage.

In the living room, Bella sits in my father’s chair. There’s something sort of debasing about that, and I’m torn between wanting to pull her out of his chair to save her from his toxicity that lingers after his death and wanting to never let her stand up. Can she soothe the ache my father left?

“So,” I say as I sit down on the couch.

“I have to go back to New York,” Bella says. “I’ve… accepted that you might not come back with me. Seeing you here, talking with Carlisle and Esme this morning-- I have faith that you’ll be alright. There’s no way to say this kindly…” Bella trails off. “But I don’t think I need you. Not anymore.”

“You don’t want me?” I sound like a child, close to whimpering. 

Bella shakes her head firmly. “That’s not what I said. I want you, but I don’t  _ need _ you. 

“I made the choice to go back to school all on my own. I dealt with your apartment and my own affairs. I think I became a real adult while you were gone, and I know I’ll be able to stay one when I get back.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” I say. 

Bella smiles sympathetically. “That’s alright. I don’t know if it’s so important for you to understand. I just wanted to let you know that although you hurt me, I’m not broken.”

We sit in silence for a minute.

“So where does this leave us?” I ask, tentatively hopeful. Bella regards me thoughtfully.

“I know where I stand. I know what I want from the future. I think you still need to figure it out. But I’m taking the train back to Manhattan this afternoon so I can take the SAT on Wednesday. I’m done waiting for the men in my life to make their move. It’s high time I make mine.”

“Bella, I’m not ready to go back--” 

“That’s alright, Edward,” Bella interrupts. “You can take all the time you need. I love you. I’ll always love you. But I won’t wait for you.”

Our moment of reckoning is disrupted by the door opening; Carlisle and Esme are back from the grocery. It hits me that Carlisle is on leave from the hospital for bereavement; Esme is likely on leave for maternity. I wonder if she’ll continue to work after their baby is born. Thinking about their baby, the baby that will make me an uncle, makes my eyes mist over. I’d figured that with my father dead, I’d have no further blood relatives; this child will be my flesh and blood, just as Carlisle is my flesh and blood. I came to Chicago to refind my father and I failed. In his place, though, I could be satisfied with a brother.

“Is it time for you to head to the train station?” Esme asks Bella, waddling to the kitchen with a paper bag full of produce.

“Nearly,” Bella says. 

“Would you like a ride?” Carlisle offers, following Esme. “I’m more than happy to drive you.”

“No, thank you,” Bella says. “The weather is so nice. I think I’ll walk to the bus and just enjoy the sunshine.”

I stand up to say goodbye to Bella as she gathers her things. I’m speechless, distraught at the thought of losing her but unable to commit to following her to New York.

“Goodbye, Edward,” Bella says at the door. She raises a hand to wave at me. I want to take her into my arms and hold her and prevent her from leaving, but her words and the gravity of losing her is too weighty to allow me to do anything more than wave limply back.

I stare out the window after her dumbly. Carlisle’s hand on my shoulder rouses me from my abstraction. 

“We need to bury our father,” Carlisle says. I hang my head at his words, but he’s right. 

“We have a family plot,” I say roughly. “Maggie and Ma are there. He’d be right at home.” 

Carlisle nods. “Next weekend, then.”

I agree solemnly and drop onto the couch heavily. I can’t stop thinking about Bella’s words and her near-ultimatum. I’m restless but frozen in place; I settle for shaving completely in the bathroom, washing the ginger hairs down the sink. I stare at the little whirlpool the sink creates while it drains, hypnotizing myself into thinking that maybe life is fine just as it is. That I don’t need to go back to New York, that I can just pass every day without real joy or forward propulsion. I could live with Carlisle and Esme. I could go back into asbestos installation. There is a life here to be had in Chicago, but I’m not sure if I want it.

I let my thoughts percolate until I can’t bear to think anymore. I stumble back to the living room and sit on the couch with my head in my hands.

The phone rings, a clattering klaxon, and Esme waddles back into the room to answer. 

“Edward, it’s for you,” she summons. She sets the phone down on the table next to my father’s chair and leaves the room to give me privacy.

“Hello?” I answer. 

“Edward?” It’s Alice. “Is Bella still with you?”

“She left,” I say. My voice is hollow and I feel empty. I know I could sit around and wallow in self-pity, that everyone I love leaves me. I could moan about how unfair it is that Bella brought feeling back into my life after I left her, only for her to leave me. I’m equally torn between what I want-- Bella-- and what I ought to do-- keeping my distance. I don’t want to hurt Bella any more, but being away from her is hurting me.  _ So selfish for even thinking like this,  _ I admonish myself.

“Not yet,” Alice says. “She can’t have left just yet.”

“No,” I agree. “But she’s at the train station. She’ll be gone soon enough.”

“Usually I don’t give instructions regarding the future,” Alice says thoughtfully. “I just divine it. But, Edward?”

“Yeah?” 

“I’m going to tell you to do something. And I’m going to need you to do it.”

“What is it?” I feel the strange flutterings of hope; it’s like my inner self is an open window, and the curtains are starting to move with the breeze. I want to see Bella through the opening, because thoughts of Bella consume me and I just want to pull her in, to let her know me completely. I want to do the right thing, to make her want to be my wife someday.

“Go after her.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I hang up the phone and grab my bag. I charge into my parents’ room, where Carlisle is writing at the desk and Esme is sitting with her feet up on the bed.

“I need to go back to New York,” I announce, a little frantically. “I can’t be here for the burial. Or the reading of the will. Do you think you could call me? Or-- could I get a ride to the train station?”

Esme beams at me from her resting spot on the bed.

“Of course, Edward,” she says. “Carlisle, you’ll take him?”

Carlisle smiles at me, and we’re off in his car without hesitation.

At the train station, before I can dart out to buy my ticket, Carlisle places a hand on my arm.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he says. “I’d like my son to know his uncle.”

I smile distractedly. “I’d like that,” I say, and then I’m racing to the ticket desk.

The overhead speaker announces that the train to Penn Station, New York City will be leaving in five minutes. I scribble out a check to the ticketer and sprint through the crowd to get on board the train. I don’t know where Bella’s seat is, but I have the full ride to look for her, to let her know: that I choose her, that I’ll follow her wherever she’ll lead. 

I pace the aisles as the train starts rolling east towards New York. I pass women who could be Bella, almost, but aren’t; none of them hold my interest or attention as Bella does, none of them make me want more out of life than just survival. 

At last, I’m on the car closest to the first class section of the train. The light in this car is different, almost clearer; though people are smoking, the air feels less clouded with it than in the previous cars. I’m worried my search will be cut off, that I won’t be permitted in the first class cars, that Bella is drinking with someone more put together than I am in the diner car, but the last seat before the end of the car is occupied by a woman in a blue skirt, holding a wide book before her. I sit down across from her and clear my throat a few times before she sets the book down in her lap.

We lock eyes and then my lap is full of Bella, sweet smelling Bella. She has tears in her eyes and she cups my face with her hands, stroking the freshly smooth skin. 

“It’s you,” Bella whispers over and over. “It’s you.”

“I love you,” I say, choked up. “I love you. I love you.”

“I know,” Bella whispers, and then her lips meet mine. I’m home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: Time Won't Let Me by The Outsiders. Released in 1965, this song is a certified bop. Check it out!
> 
> Maggie’s death— accidental strangulation by the tire swing— is something that happened to the older brother of a student in the Pre-K class that I taught. It was the most upsetting thing ever. The boy’s mom felt so responsible for the death, but he fell out of the swing while it was tangled around him and it likely broke his neck when he fell. It couldn’t have been prevented except for prohibiting play with the swing, and even still, accidents happen that can’t be prevented. It’s tragic, but it’s life.
> 
> “This Magazine is Haunted” was a comic that ran from 1951-1958. It featured spooky stories and comics often narrated by a dude called Dr. Death. If you’re into horror and vintage comics, it’s worth looking up!
> 
> “Space Adventures” was a comic published from 1952-1979. It underwent a change of publishers starting in spring 1958— Maggie died in May, so Edward got the second edition of the new storyline of Space Adventures right after it came out.
> 
> A panty-waist was a 60s term for a Mama’s boy.
> 
> "Doo Wah Diddy Diddy" is a song by Manfred Mann, released in 1964. I think everyone has probably heard it at some point. It's a great song.
> 
> We're getting near the end! Only two more chapters. Expect a very long chapter for the next update!
> 
> And thank you for being so patient with this chapter. I try to stay a chapter ahead of publishing so that I can publish weekly, but the next chapter has been hard to write-- I don't want to say goodbye to this story but it does have an end in sight. And this week was stressful and I got behind, so I'm only about a third of the way done with writing for the next chapter... but I didn't want to delay posting any longer. Please let me know what you think of the chapter! If you have any history questions I'm more than happy to answer :)


	14. Everyday

**August 2, 1966**

**New York City**

**Bella**

Arriving at Penn Station with Edward at my side feels like Odysseus returning to Ithaca after his many journeys. So much has changed for us in the past several days. So much has changed for me.

Things aren’t anywhere close to where they need to be, but for the first time in my life I can see a path through it all. Edward spoke to his boss last evening; he’s being let back on staff, but the trust there is shaky. It’s shaky between the two of us as well. I need him to show me that he won’t leave at the slightest upset, that he will work on trusting himself and therefore trusting me. Loving him is a revelation, albeit a painful one at times.

He slept on the floor at his old apartment last night when we got into New York. I wasn’t ready to stay with him there or to have him over in my room. Edward dropped me off at my apartment, giving me a sweet kiss at my door, then called me when he arrived at his place. 

“Rosalie is here,” he said into the phone, his voice so low that I imagined the receiver practically in his mouth. “She’s very cross with me.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “She helped me a great deal when you left. She’s unhappy with me for going to Chicago to find you.”

“I didn’t know you two were on good terms.”

“Well, we were until I left.”

“You’ll patch things up,” Edward said, sounding confident. “You’re the best at that.”

I don’t know about all that, but it felt good to hear it from someone whose opinion mattered to me. 

This morning, Edward is taking me out for breakfast. Part of me wants to eat at the pancake house but I don’t have it in me to be so petty. I also don’t want to run into Jacob with Edward by my side, and part of why it’s important for us to get together this morning is to talk about Jacob and problem solve about finding Edward a new apartment. It’s also important for him to understand what school means to me and why I’m sure about going to college. Before I go out with Edward I head to the Factory. I called Andy last night to catch up with him; I have an idea about how to best apologize to Rosalie, and I need his involvement. 

Gerard greets me at the door with a cigarette in his mouth. His hands are covered in inky paint and his white painter’s pants are streaked with the stuff as well. Walking into the Factory I can see where he and Andy are pulling screenprints of Elvis on canvas. I’ve always been curious about the pictures Andy makes, but the squeegee for pulling the ink through the silk is so large it requires two men to push and pull it in order to get a fully coated print. 

Andy wipes his hair off his forehead with the back of his hands when he sees me. His glasses are foggy with exertion and he motions for Gerard to bring him a rag to wipe his hands clean. 

“And how was Chicago, Odette?” Andy asks. I like that every time I talk with Andy it’s as if we never ended our conversation, we just paused for an indefinite amount of time. 

“Illuminating,” I say warmly. 

“Did you bring me back a souvenir?”

I laugh a little awkwardly. I didn’t see anything of Chicago outside of Edward’s childhood home, and I barely even saw that. I’d spent all my time talking with Esme and Carlisle. Esme was the opposite of every British stereotype I’d heard of; she was warm and inquisitive and emotive. Carlisle was more reserved and soft spoken. He and Edward looked similar around their eyes, but not so similar as to assume that they were brothers. His features were rounder while Edward’s are narrow and somewhat pointed.

“I didn’t bring you back anything. But I had an idea while I was in Chicago that you might be interested in.”

“Is this your first step in a payment plan to me regarding your admission fee to college?” Andy asks. 

“Sure,” I agree. “I think you should do a movie about Rosalie. Call it ‘Blue Widow’ or something. Her husband back in South Carolina died, and we all call her Blue, so it’s a play on words.”

Andy raises his eyebrows, but his expression is still pretty neutral. He always looks a little aloof and above it all; I think it’s because of how monochromatic he is, all pale skin, light hair, light eyes and black clothes. 

“That’s a thought,” he admits. 

“Talk with her about it. I have a feeling she’ll be on board. It could be as raunchy as you like, I’d bet.”

I kiss Andy on the cheek again and head downstairs. Edward and I meet at a diner across the street from the Hotel Chelsea; part of me hopes I’ll spot Rosalie, but it’s unlikely. She’s never been an early riser and Edward and I are making the most of a long day. And Edward made it sound as if she intended to stay the night with Emmett; I consider the possibility that she’s given up her room at the hotel and is going to live out of wedlock with Emmett. It feels scandalous and strange, but somehow right.

Edward is dressed like a cool cat in his sunglasses, crisp gray slacks, and polo shirt. He has a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his hair is slick with gel, but no gel can tame his hair completely. His shirt is rust colored which makes his hair look a little less red, with a panel of rust and cream patterning down the middle. I love the enigmatic nature of his hair color. He has a paper rolled and tucked under his arm. He grins a little crookedly at me and I feel that familiar rush of a girlie feeling even though we’re not yet in smooth waters.

“You hungry?” Edward asks, holding open the door for me. I nod and we’re swiftly seated at a table in the back corner. Edward lays the paper out flat on the table, then pulls a photograph out of his pocket. It’s folded up and a little crinkled at the edges.

“I brought something to show you,” Edward says. He awkwardly pushes the folded picture at me. I unfold it carefully. It’s a photo I’ve already seen: the picture of me with blurry eyes and a cigarette. The picture Edward had of me in his apartment, the one that made our first meeting seem like kismet. It’s hard to believe that we only met a month and a half ago. We’ve spent just about as much time together as apart, but I can hardly remember what my life was like before I met him. 

“I’ve seen this,” I say. I look up at Edward. He’s staring at me intently. Things between us feel both a little uneasy and rock steady at the same time, the two things teetering on a poorly balanced scale. One instant we’re good as gold, the next we’re strangers. I don’t know how to make it better.

“The day we met, I looked at this picture in this diner before I decided to go find you,” Edward says in a low voice. “I didn’t know then that I could feel what I do about you.”

I place my hand over my heart. It’s a sweet sentiment.

“Leaving you was a terrible mistake,” Edward continues. “But I don’t regret it. I saw my father one last time before he died, and I told him how awful he made me feel… I don’t think I’ll ever get closer to the truth about his life, but I got to say my piece. I only wish I’d brought you with me to do it.”

I take his hand in mine. It feels like the time to express all the unsaid things that pass between us, but the little waitress butts in and asks for our orders.

“She’s ordering for me,” Edward says to her, and that makes my heart swell. I love that he trusts me. I wish I felt the same way about him, but every time I have the instinct to feel a certain way I’m reminded of all the trouble I went through in the past few weeks without him.

“We’ll share a stack of pancakes with extra strawberry syrup, please,” I say. “And we’d each like a cup of coffee and an egg over easy. Thank you.”

The waitress leaves and the mood at the table is a little uneasy. 

“I don’t want to be without you,” Edward says. “It’s like… I’ve seen the error of my ways. And I want to be with you all the time now. I want you to move in with me.”

I don’t know how to process the feelings that come up with this invitation. It’s everything I thought I wanted; proof, that is, that Edward wants me enough to have me every day, to live with me, to see me and care about me and for me… and still I feel sad. I feel hurt that he didn’t want that when he left for Chicago. Part of me thinks that he might have wanted it, but didn’t know he did, or didn’t know how to. The feelings raging inside me are heavy. I want to cry but I don’t.

“Is that a good idea?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious. I think about Jessica, who I worked with at Bloomingdale’s, living with her beau. She fell pregnant and they weren’t married. I feel incredibly juvenile, imagining myself pregnant with horror. I’m far too young to be someone’s mother. And I feel far too young to be married, which would make the living arrangement acceptable, and even an unintended pregnancy less taboo.

Edward’s bright green eyes are clear with intention. “I believe so.”

I look down at my hands. My nails are a little too long. Working in the pancake house made it impossible for me to keep them painted; they’re plain, just like the rest of me. Edward made me feel beautiful, certainly, but breaking my features down into parts makes them ordinary, even ugly. A big, red birthmark that contours my face. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Light olive skin. A body lined with a layer of fleshy fat, following the bout of depression that came on when Edward left. I don’t understand why Edward wants my body, why he would want to live with me. Marry me. Most importantly, I don’t know if I want those things too, and I don’t know where that leaves us.

The joy of being back in his presence is so tempered by the insecurity of being apart. It hurts to think about the time spent not knowing about him, but it’s not something I can ignore completely.

“Can I think about it?” I ask. Edward nods in agreement, which eases the strange mood at the table. When the food comes, he tucks in with gusto.

“So how did you spend your time in Chicago?” I ask around a mouthful of pancakes. Edward’s mouth goes tight at this. He takes a moment to breathe and relaxes before answering.

“I was a wreck,” he admits. “I met Carlisle and Esme the first day I got there. Then I confronted my father-- that went poorly. I lost hope. I avoided Carlisle-- my brother. I hadn’t known about him until the day I left New York, and it really fried me.”

Edward pauses for a moment, messes with his cutlery on the table. He takes a drink of his coffee and smiles at me weakly.

“So I spent my time running from everything. I slept during the day at the YMCA and went out at night to take pictures. And, of course, I thought about you.”

I’m hanging on his every word. I want to bottle this moment up because it is so charged with all the feelings that have made up our relationship: concern, curiosity, intrigue, love, doubt. It’s the first time I’ve felt everything at once without wishing some part of our relationship was different. Before me, Edward is a new man, but he’s the same person I met at Max’s Kansas City all those weeks ago.

“I’d say it was a waste of time, but being so lost, then losing my Pa, then seeing you… it all made things clear. That I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to be with you. The rest will come in due time.”

My eyes feel watery and my throat feels tight. I can’t do anything but nod. Edward reaches across the table with his free hand to wipe a smudge of syrup off the corner of my mouth. He feeds me the stray syrup with his thumb, then sucks the thumb into his own mouth after I’ve licked it clean. It’s erotic and intimate, and I make up my mind about living with him. But I decide not to tell him quite yet.

Edward digs back into his food. I push the crackly crust of my egg around on the small plate, unsure what to say next.

“I take the SAT tomorrow morning,” I say. “If I do well, I’ll start college at Barnard by the end of the month.”

“That’s the women’s college, right?” Edward asks. I nod.

“It’s in the Bronx.” 

Edward looks at me thoughtfully. 

“But the testing center is in Brooklyn,” I say quickly, before he can catch my idea about housing. I’m not quite ready to tell him that I think we should find an apartment in the Bronx together. 

“Do you want me to go with you? For the test?” Edward asks. I shrug. I think I look ambivalent to him, but really my feelings are more complex. My mother, missing from my life for three years, lives in Brooklyn. I’ve been waffling about whether or not to track her down; I don’t know yet what it will mean to me, what I want to say to her. 

And I don’t know if I want to burden Edward with the complexity of these feelings. My relationship with my mother is my own, although it’s arguably nonexistent. Anything between us is in my head, considering that she left and never tried to regain contact with me. 

“I might,” I admit. Since I’m already feeling vulnerable, I decide to let it all hang out. “While you were gone, I called my father.”

Edward stops eating and looks at me with interest.

“How did that go?”

“It was the first time I’ve talked with him since I moved here,” I say. I sigh. “I miss him. He was always too strict and severe with punishment, but he’s my father.”

Edward’s eyes turn wary, his expression a little more guarded. “Do you need… to go back? To Seattle?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t want to, anyway. But he told me that he knew where my mother was.”

This time, I can’t fight the tears that prick the backs of my eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. “She’s living in Brooklyn.”

Edward blinks at me. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” My voice sounds far away. “All this time I didn’t know where she was and I could sort of pretend she was sick or dead. Now that I know she’s been here all along, I have to contend with her just not wanting to see me.”

I can’t meet his eyes. I’m twitching in my seat, my leg doing the mambo against the seat. I must be jiggling the table because I feel Edward’s ankles hook around my dancing leg at the calf and squeeze. It’s a huge comfort; I sag into it, releasing some of the nervous tension.

“I’m so sorry,” Edward says. It’s almost enough to make this all feel okay, but it isn’t. We lock eyes and I know he can see what I’m feeling. His brow is furrowed with concern, his beautiful face tired with all that’s gone on in the past few days. Deep circles below his eyes make his slender face look gaunt and catlike. It’s a reminder that he lost his father just the other day. Suddenly, sitting across from him isn’t enough-- I move around the table and sit in his lap, wrapping my arms around him. I squeeze him so tightly I worry he won’t be able to breathe, but he holds me just as hard. 

We untangle ourselves when we hear someone nearby clear their throat, reminding us that we’re in public. It’s a little embarrassing, to be so raw out in the open, but I don’t mind.

“I’d like you to come with me to the test,” I admit. “But I need you to come with me to find my mother.”

Edward nods, but looks a little uncomfortable. “You said you met someone while I was gone…” 

“Ah. I did. Jacob.” 

“Were you… intimate?” Edward looks hurt at the prospect. I wonder why he thinks that sex with someone else would have made the ache of his absence any more tolerable, but I dismiss the thought. He’s a man, and men can be territorial. At least, that’s what some of my old girlfriends back in Seattle used to say.

“No. But he was there for me when I was alone. Rosalie was there too, but she met Emmett the day you left. It was hard to be around a happy couple when I’d just had my heart broken.”

“I never want you to feel heartbroken again,” Edward says.

I smile a little sadly. “Then don’t break it again.”

Edward presses a kiss to my palm. He signals for the bill but lets me pay-- I’m sure he’s low on cash after not working for a few weeks. We leave the diner and head for the subway, but at 23rd Street he directs us onto the C train and not the 1 train needed to get to the Bronx.

“Where are we going?” I ask, leaning my head against Edward’s shoulder as we sit down.

“Brooklyn,” he says. My stomach goes runny with anxiety, but Edward wraps an arm around me and kisses my hair. It’s comforting. I feel him tapping a beat onto my arm where his hand rests. It’s a welcome distraction from the fear of finding my mother. When I worry aloud that we don’t know where exactly in Brooklyn she is, or whether she’s using her maiden name, or has married someone else, Edward rolls his eyes to tease me.

“I’m a journalist,” he says. “I can find her.” I smile a thin little smile, biting my tongue to stop from reminding him that he’s a photo-journalist and not a journalist proper.

We get off the train at Kingston and climb up the stairs to see the weather turning moody. 

“It’s gonna rain,” Edward says. “Come on, let’s get a newspaper.”

The newsstand at the entrance to the subway sells us a copy of The Brooklyn Baron for only a nickel. Edward deftly flips it open and holds it over us as the skies open. We scuttle together to an awning for cover; the rain is cool on our skin but the air is warm, making my skin feel damp and strange. My armpits are tingling and my teeth are clacking together despite the heat. 

I peer up at Edward. He’s smiling his crooked little smile in a carefree way; it’s a glimpse at the Edward I fell in love with, the Edward who was confident in his accomplishments and the life he built for himself. On an impulse, I stand on tiptoe and plant a smooch on the corner of his mouth.

Edward looks down at me, his pupils wide. He lowers the paper and wraps his arms around me, staring deeply into my eyes. His green irises are flecked with gold, something I’ve never noticed before. I gasp at the beauty of his eyes, and watch as they get closer and closer to my face. Edward kisses me with his eyes open, and it’s wonderful and comfortable and intimate. 

I close my eyes as our kiss deepens. I feel Edward’s hands moving up and down my back, feeling me up and down. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more turned on in my life. I open my mouth against his and taste his breath and tongue, the sweet syrup mingling with salty eggs and coffee and cigarettes and that singular scent that’s just  _ Edward. _

The awning is a better cover against the rain than the newspaper, but we’re still getting wet from the downpour. Freshly formed puddles are kicked by rushing Brooklynites, flooding my saddle shoes and soaking my socks. My elbow is exposed to the rain; it’s strange to be mostly just damp, with squelching feet and a very wet elbow and to have my body pressed against Edward, my head tilted to reach his. The singularity of the experience builds a cage around us that feels impenetrable, but then I hear a voice that I haven’t heard in a very long time.

“Isabella?” 

I pull away from Edward to look out from the awning onto the sidewalk. A little old lady is staring at us, her back curled with age. Her skirt is sodden, the hem brushing the wet cement; her sweater clings to her frame. Her hair is covered with a thin scarf for protection against the rain. She looks familiar but I can hardly place her.

“Isabella, is this Isabella?” She asks, stepping a little closer. She’s pointing at my face and I reach up to touch my birthmark. My eyes widen in recognition.

“Nonna?”

It’s my grandmother, my mother’s mother; I’d been told she died years and years ago, but she’s before me here in Brooklyn. Her eyes well up with tears and she pulls me to her, crushing me to her chest. I have to stoop a little to hug her like I used to; she’s smaller than I remember, but sturdy. Hugging her sends me right back to childhood, when everything felt fine and I was cared for. I  _ missed _ this.

We pull apart at the same time and take a good look at one another. Nonna’s eyes are a little cloudy with age, the pupils fuzzy in the sea of blue. Her skin is a little more lined and the hair peeking out of her scarf hair is completely white, but she’s still recognizably my grandmother. She rubs my arms up and down.

“I remember you,” she says, patting the pockets of her skirt. She pulls out a pocketbook and opens it up, rifling through stacks of receipts to find what she’s looking for. Her voice is the warm, throaty voice I remember from childhood, still thick with her Italian accent. With a shaky hand, she selects a slip of paper and turns it to show me.

It’s not a slip of paper-- it’s a picture of me, my school portrait from 9th grade. My face is rounder, my smile wider. I look so young. I take the photo and show it to Edward.

“And who is this?” Nonna asks, blinking at Edward.

“This is Edward, Nonna,” I say. “He’s my beau.”

“Hello,” Edward says a little awkwardly, extending his hand to shake. Nonna disregards it and pulls him down to her level for a hug, smacking his back with overly enthusiastic pats.

“You return my Isabellina to me,” she says. Edward chuckles and rubs the back of his neck.

“Nonna, how did you get this picture?” I ask. I’m equally in awe of the recent picture as I am of Nonna being here, alive in New York. “Mother said you were dead.”

“Your mother say I was dead?” Nonna asks. She frowns. “Your mother don’t speak to me many years. She say nasty things, your mother, then three years ago, phone call. I don’t know who. I say, what is this? Who is calling me, so late, so late at night?  _ Chi è qui _ , daughter. Your mother. She come to New York, no live in Seattle no more.”

“Mother is with you?” I ask breathlessly. I can’t believe it. I look up at Edward for guidance and he wraps an arm around my waist, squeezing me lightly. His touch is anchoring.

“Yes,” Nonna says. She grabs my wrist and gives it a tug. “Come, come. You see.”

I grasp Edward’s hand tightly as we follow my grandmother around corners and across streets. She walks as quickly as the other New Yorkers do, and I try to tally up how many years it’s been since I’ve seen her. The last I truly remember of her blurs with the time around when we moved north from Tukwila, which was almost 13 years ago. I can’t remember when I asked what happened to Nonna and Nonno-- did Mother say that they were dead? Or could she have said they were dead to  _ her? _

Finally, we stop in front of a squished Brownstone. Nonna walks briskly up the stairs to unlock the door, but I’m frozen on the sidewalk. The rain has stopped but the skies are still gray. 

My insides feel like they’re made of mush. It strikes me just how fast everything has happened; meeting Edward, losing Edward, going to Chicago, coming home, finding Nonna… and now I’m meant to go and see my mother who left without warning. It’s enough to make a girl’s knees weak.

All of a sudden, Edward is gripping my arms. 

“Bella? Bella, breathe,” he says. He tilts my head up so I’m looking directly at him. His breath on my face is grounding, but my head is spinning and I can’t really follow his directions. I try to say something to that effect, but I’m not sure if I do. Edward pulls me from Nonna’s stoop and directs me to a brick post by a house some doors down. I’m grateful for the space. I shiver against the wet brick and feel my teeth clacking together.

Edward bends down so he’s at my level.

“Close your eyes,” he says. I do, then I feel his lips on each of my eyelids. He kisses me high on each cheek, then strokes my hair back over my head. His nails are short, but I can feel them tracing lines along my scalp. 

I realize that I’m sort of crying without tears. It feels so silly and foolish to be so worked up; I’m blubbering about a lost mother when she’s been found. Edward curls his arms around me but I have my hands up in fists against my throat. I’m being pressed into his chest, his hand cupping my head, so I fist his shirt in my chest, wrinkling it. I let him rock me until my heart isn’t beating so painfully.

It helps when Edward moves to put his lips to my ear.

“See the pyramids along the Nile…” He sings. It’s my song-- “You Belong to Me.” The song he sang to me when Rosalie slapped me. The song Mother used to sing to me. I let him sing the whole first verse before I release his shirt and drag his head down by his ears to kiss me.

“I don’t want to be without you,” I say desperately. “I’ve never felt more alone than when you left me. More so than when Mother left. Promise me you’ll never leave me again.”

“I promise,” Edward says. His voice is rough and full of emotion. “I promise, I promise.”

I press my face back to his chest and wind my arms around him tightly. I feel his discomfort at the hold through his choppy breathing but it only makes me burrow my face deeper into him.

“I want to be here with you,” Edward murmurs into my hair. “I want to protect you.”

“Come with me,” I beg. “Come with me to meet my mother.”

“It would be an honor.”

I grip Edward’s hand as hard as I can as he directs us back to Nonna’s house. We climb the stairs and Edward knocks softly at the tall black door. I can hear Nonna’s voice getting louder as she approaches the door. It swings open; Nonna is standing there with a furrowed brow and frown.

“I come into my house and I think, where is Isabellina? Where is her  _ ragazzo?  _ Now you come? “

“I’m sorry,” Edward apologizes for me. “I needed a moment before coming in.”

The kindness of his false admission is everything I need. It reminds me of him holding me at Coney Island, of the pictures he took of me after that day at the beach. I’m moved by his words and I rest my head against his shoulder. He leans his head down so it touches the top of mine briefly. It’s like he lit a fuse at the top of my head; I feel the zing of electricity race down my spine and through my skeleton from this tiny intimate touch. 

Nonna ushers us inside and we follow her down a narrow hallway. To our left is a set of narrow stairs leading up a level and to the right is a wall shared with the other attached house. It reminds me a little of the duplex we had back in Seattle. Our bedrooms were on the second floor and the kitchen, dining room, and living room were on the first floor, along with a tiny closet with a toilet and a sink. This building is much older than my home in Seattle, though; the floors are hardwood and creak and moan with every step, the mouldings chipped and flaking with past lives. The walls are dark brown which makes the place feel a little foreboding, but everything is clean and as far as I can tell, there’s no patina of leftover cigarette smoke like that which blanketed our house back west. 

The encroachment of the stairs into the hall ends abruptly, and to the left is what can only be described as a sitting room. 

_ “Cara,” _ Nonna says.  _ “La tua figlia.” _

From the chair with its back to the hall rises a woman in a conservative black skirt and stockings. She turns to face us and I know her before she does; my mother. Her head is covered with a scarf and her once radiant olive skin is sallow, clinging to her neck though her face is puffy. She regards me with lashless eyes and I’m surprised by the lack of emotion I feel.

Edward’s grip on my hand tightens. Either his hand or mine is damp with sweat; our palms squeak against each other uncomfortably, but his physical presence keeps me anchored in reality. 

“Mother,” I say. 

“Isabella.”

She’s crying. Her blue eyes are spilling over with tears and her lower lip is quivering. She looks so different than I remember, a shade of the person I once knew. The person who raised me, who mothered me until she disappeared. I try to remember the good times we spent together, the times when it was clear she was happy and loved my father, but I come up empty. I’m so far removed from that childhood. Glancing at Edward, I feel glad to be where I am. Although seeing my mother resolves a mystery, it opens up so many more questions, and I’m not sure I want the answers; moreover, I’m not sure I need them.

“This is Edward,” I say. Mother nods and turns back around to sit down again. 

“Go, go, sit,” Nonna insists, shooing me and Edward into the room. “I make tea.”

Edward and I take our seats on the couch adjacent to Mother. His thumb strokes circles over mine, gently reminding me that he’s here.

Mother stares at us with tired eyes. She’s a husk of the person she was before, shrouded in her black clothes, bundled up for heat despite the humidity of summer. If the lights in the room were dimmer, she’d fade into the surroundings; the woman I grew up with would have illuminated the room with her presence. 

“What happened to you?” I say without thinking. “Why did you go?”

Mother sighs heavily and begins unwinding her head covering. When her hands move aside and pull the scarf along with them, I see that her hair is nearly gone. In Seattle, it was the fascination of the town. I spent hours running my hands over it, fingering the curls, tugging them out to see their true length. The coils fell all the way to the dimples in her back above her buttocks, but pulled taught they reached her thighs. Now her hair is just a shadow of fresh growth, a measly shrub where once there was a great tree. It breaks my heart a little bit.

“I’m ill, Bella.” Mother speaks these words to the floor. She looks exhausted and resigned. In the kitchen, the kettle whistles. Nonna chats to herself and the kettle in Italian as she putters through the cabinets to make tea.

“I can see that,” I say. “But I still don’t understand. Why did you leave me?” My voice breaks as I ask the question that’s nagged me for years. 

Mother casts her eyes up at me again. I don’t see any emotion I recognize in them. 

I’d imagined our reunion countless times over the years. I’d imagined Mother being ecstatic when she saw me, or remorseful, or angry, or regretful. Conflicted, even. Devastated. I’d figured that anything strong enough to make a woman leave her only daughter would have something just as strong as it upon rediscovery of said daughter. I was wrong. It eats at me. I feel the buzz of a headache tingling at my eyebrows and turn to press my face into Edward’s shoulder.

Edward pulls me to his side and presses a kiss into my head. It feels nice but it’s not enough to reel me out of this ocean of uncertainty and discomfort. I’m stuck in this whirlpool of my mother’s selfishness.

“I came to New York for treatment,” she says. “The doctors said I was going to die… I left Seattle thinking I was knocking at death’s door. Is it so wrong that I wanted to die in my mother’s care?”

“Yes,” Edward says. I’m stunned. He’s furious, staring my mother down with fire in his green eyes. He looks passionate and wild and I grip his hand all the more tightly for it.

“Excuse me?” Mother sweeps her gaze from me to him. Her eyebrows are all but gone, but she raises one anyway. 

“You left your only child without explanation. You left her at her most vulnerable. Although you couldn’t see that, someone else did, and he took advantage.”

“Stop,” I whisper to Edward. Nonna bustles into the room with a tray of tea, setting it down on a little table that she then drags in front of Mother. She pours Mother a cup of tea and hands it to her, watching as she takes a sip.

“How you take your tea?” Nonna asks Edward. She’s busy making me a cup of tea with two sugars-- the way I drank it when I was a little girl. I don’t sweeten my tea so much now, but I accept the cup from her anyway.

“With milk, if you have it,” Edward says. “Thank you.”

It’s awkward, waiting for Nonna to go to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of milk for Edward’s tea. Mother glares at him all the while. 

“The milk here, not so fresh,” Nonna says as she returns. “In Italy, the milk straight from the cow. Much sweeter. Here, not so much.” Edward looks charmed by Nonna’s chattering. It stirs blurry memories within me, time spent on her hip as she cooked and cleaned. I can’t remember the schism that separated us from her and Nonno.

“Where is Nonno?” I ask. Nonna smiles at me sadly. 

“He die two years ago. Your mother hold his hand, we say goodbye. He did no suffer, the doctor say.”

My face does something funny at the news of Nonno’s death. From my scattered and hazy memories, he was a playful man, eager to entertain me. I wish I could have known him better. I only realize I’m crying when Edward traces a tear down my cheek by my birthmark.

Mother coughs, which draws our attention back to her. 

“I’ve been ill for some time,” Mother says. “I found out when your little brother was born dead that there was something wrong with me. I’d lost a baby before you were born, but I just never got over the fatigue after losing that last one.”

I can’t look away from her. I remember Mother fading away a bit, but I always wondered if that were a skewed retrospective; a little girl trying to put together a picture where there was none. Mother rubs her chin and continues.

“No doctors were sure what was going on until I started growing a little twin right here.”

Mother points to a faded pink scar on her neck-- it’s small enough that I wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t pointed it out, but it’s not one I’ve seen before. 

“What happened?” I ask. My voice sounds funny with feeling.

“A tumor. It didn’t get so big to kill me, but the doctor in Seattle said it was probably the big C, and you know what that means.” 

I drop my head into my hands. I’d never noticed anything wrong with her; at the time, she was my perfect mother, just a little extra tired or removed. She and Father slept in different beds, but they said it was because she was sore after a rough pregnancy. 

“But you’re still here,” I say. “You’re alive, you’re fine-- why did you leave me?”

Mother rolls her eyes. “I really look fine to you, Bella?” She waves a limp hand over herself. “I have nothing left. When I found out I was going to die, all I wanted was to die in peace at home. Not with a husband who ignored me and ruled the roost with an iron fist, not with a daughter who cursed me and told me how much she hated me. I left so I could die.”

“But you’re not dead,” I insist. “Why didn’t you call? Why couldn’t you write? Why weren’t you there when I needed you most?” 

Nonna grabs Mother’s hand and holds it between both of hers. “I say the same, I say, Renée, why you don’t call my Isabellina? She no want.”

“Nonna,” I say, “you never called us. You could have told me that Mama was safe with you in New York, that you were alive… I knew nothing!” 

I haven’t called my mother ‘Mama’ since I was little-- come to think of it, I likely stopped thinking of her as my mama around the time that Nonna and Nonno disappeared from my life. Our relationship grew formal then, all those years ago. My mother divorced herself from me emotionally until she could leave me physically.

“What did you tell Father? I asked him where you were. I begged to know. I pleaded and cried and yelled until he whipped me. He only told me you were in Brooklyn after I ran away to New York.”

Mother heaves a great sigh. She shifts in her chair and pulls her hand away from Nonna.

“I told your father what I’m telling you now. I didn’t want to be with a child that didn’t want me. You were fine on your own. You said so yourself. As for his feelings, he could hang them, for all I cared. I was dying. I’d wasted my youth following your father and playing house for him. Why shouldn’t I be taken care of when I’m racing towards the end of my life?”

I don’t hold back the harsh cry that rises from deep within me. I stand up and pace the room like an animal in a cafe; I’m too big to be contained in this small home. I need to get out, but I need to know more just as much. Edward grabs my wrist as I pass the couch, rubs his thumb over my pulse. He pulls my hand to his face and kisses my palm. I want to slap him away. Really, I don’t want to slap  _ him _ but my mother. I won’t make him suffer for what I feel with her.

“You never should have left me,” I insist. “You made a bad choice. And you continued to make that choice, every day you didn’t call.”

“Your father knew where I was,” Mother says. I never realized how irritating her voice is; there’s a hum to it, almost a dual note that weighs down the high lilt I used to love listening to. Now she sounds close to monstrous.

“He’s not blameless,” I say. “But you were worse. All those years I spent thinking about how everything I said to you that night was wrong. Now I know I was right.”

Mother’s lower lip quivers. “You don’t mean that. I’m a dying woman, Bella.”

“You’re not just dying, Mother. Every day that you don’t die, you’re also living. You’ve lived without me for a long time by your own choice-- know that going forward, you’ll continue to live without me. But it’ll be because  _ I  _ don’t want to live with  _ you _ in my life.”

I clutch Edward’s hand and pull him away from the sofa, disregarding Nonna and our tea. I walk quickly out of the room, then we’re through the hall and out the door, down the steps and around a corner. I keep walking and Edward keeps pace with me. I walk despite tears clouding my vision, until the world in front of me blurs into just colors, no shapes. I keep walking until I hear my own voice squeaking with the effort of suppressing sobs; when Edward gives my arm a gentle tug, I allow him to pull me into a hug. I rest my head in the crook of his neck and sag into him, letting my pain and rejection flow out of me and through him.

After a while, I feel Edward start to sway us to a beat in his head. It’s soothing. His foot starts tapping a bit on the ground.

“Breakin’ rocks out in the sun,” he sings softly against my head. “I fought the law and the law won.”

I look up at him with a watery smile. “I fought the law and the law won.”

We embrace tightly and walk to Nostrand Avenue to catch the A train. It’s a long commute, from Brooklyn to Edward’s job in the Bronx-- we pass the time on the subway playing tic-tac-toe on a napkin, then switch to our little humming guessing game. Edward keeps his music picks to older stuff, music from my childhood in the 50s while I try to throw him off with more recent records. I did my fair share of listening to his collection while he was in Chicago, and there are too many Rolling Stones songs that sound similar to Little Richard, so I’m able to stump him every few turns. We switch to the 1 train at 168 Street Station and get off at 207 Street. Edward keeps my hand in his the entire walk time, swinging it wildly as we mount the stairs.

The Bronx Press-Review offices feel a lot less foreboding with Edward by my side than they did when I was here with Rosalie. Edward greets the receptionists by name and kisses my cheek before darting off to find Mr. Molina, his boss. I’m loitering awkwardly by the reception desk, waiting for him, when I’m startled by someone grabbing me around my middle and pulling me into a bear hug.

“Stella-Bella!” It’s Emmett. My gasp of surprise turns into a huff of laughter.

“Emmett, you scared me!” I turn and catch Emmett’s goofy grin. His smile is a sight for sore eyes; it doesn’t stir up strange feelings in me like Edward’s does, but his deep dimples and deeper laugh lines make it impossible for me to resist smiling with him. I wonder how Rosalie could ever argue with him-- thinking of Rosalie makes my chest ache. I miss her.

“How is Rosalie?” I ask. I can’t help myself. I count back the days since I last heard her voice-- the longest I’ve gone since Edward left. I can’t help but feel that I’ve traded Rosalie for Edward. Especially after the reunion with my mother, it feels like it’s not a fair trade.

“She misses you,” Emmett says. “She likes being a big sister. She’s real maternal and all, and now she has nowhere to put it.”

“Well, you could let her know that I’m home now,” I say hopefully. 

“She knows,” Emmett lets me down gently. I grimace and shrug at that. “She likes the apartment, by the way.” 

I’m surprised by that; I would have thought her tastes to be more luxe, considering that she stayed at the Hotel Chelsea for so long. Maybe she likes that she’s taking something  _ from _ Edward by staying there with Emmett, preventing him from keeping his lease. I wouldn’t put it past her.

“Really?” 

Emmett smiles again. “So much that she cancelled her room at the Chelsea.” My eyes widen. 

“Living together out of wedlock? I’m scandalized,” I joke. Emmett grins again.

“I’ll marry her today if she’ll have me,” he says. “I need a good woman like her to make an honest man out of me.”

I snort a laugh, then turn serious. “Where were you living before you took Edward’s place?” 

Emmett shrugs. “Here and there. I lived in the Bronx for a long while before moving to Manhattan to work at Max’s. Manhattan’s a lot safer, that’s for sure.”

“What do you mean by that?” 

Emmett looks at me quizzically. “Have you ever read my paper? The Bronx is burning, Bella.” He steps away from me to grab today’s issue of the Bronx Press-Review. On the front page is a picture of a Ford Starliner on fire. It’s in front of an apartment building-- on the stoop, two little children sit with ice creams, watching the car blaze on in the middle of the day. People walk along the side of the street as if nothing abnormal is going on.

“Yikes,” I mutter. But Alphabet City is no walk in the park-- Jacob told me about getting mugged a number of times coming home from school and work, and his father feeling the need to carry a gun with him when he worked his ambulance shifts. The irony of an emergency medic carrying a weapon wasn’t lost on me.

I flip through the paper, skimming articles about the daily goings-on in the Bronx. Most of the rabble seems to be centered in the South Bronx, which is far enough away from the Press-Review’s office in Charlotte Gardens for me to feel that Edward isn’t in a significant amount of danger coming to work. I notice the section in the back of the paper, the apartment classifieds. I look over this section in more detail. One listing in particular catches my eye: a two-bedroom apartment in Highbridge, located about a fifteen minute walk away from Yankee Stadium. It’s $110 per month for a monthly lease, but that drops to $98 per month if you sign a lease for a year. It’s a two minute walk to Ogden Avenue, where I could catch the bus to 181st Street to get on the 1 train to ride to Barnard. 

“Can I keep this?” I ask Emmett. 

“You like the paper that much?” Emmett teases. “It’s yours.”

I catch sight of Edward approaching over Emmett’s shoulder. He looks a little apprehensive but positive overall. I raise an eyebrow at him and he makes an ‘O’ with his thumb and forefinger, his other fingers fanning out. Talking with Mr. Molina went well, it seems.

“You okay?” Edward asks me, stopping at Emmett’s side. 

“Yeah,” I say. “Can we stop somewhere before heading back to Manhattan?”

“Sure,” he agrees. Edward and Emmett nod and smile with tight lips at one another, then Edward takes my hand and walks with me downstairs and out the building.

“So you still have a job?” I prod. I have the paper rolled up and tucked under my armpit. I’ll need to ask Edward for directions to Nelson Avenue and 166th Street, but I want to know about his work prospects before I mention my idea about the apartment to him.

“Mr. Molina says I have some potential,” Edward says. He looks hopeful and for the first time since Chicago, he looks young again. “He says that he wants to expand the photography department, give each of us specific beats to run. Emmett showed him the pictures I took of you. Mr. Molina says my portraits are good enough that I could be the entertainment photographer if I wanted it.”

I squeeze his hand. “That’s incredible! Do you want it?”

Edward’s smile slips. “I don’t know. The pay isn’t any different. I was thinking about what I do want… I think I want to be an editor for the paper.”

I’m a little confused. Edward has some books, and he works in journalism, so he clearly likes to read a bit, but I would never have pegged him for wanting to edit articles. 

“Like a story editor?” 

Edward shakes his head. “No, a photo editor. I think I’d like to choose what pictures to put on what pages, how to edit them, you know… I love taking pictures, but I think I want to take pictures for art. I want to edit them for a living.” 

I drop Edward’s hand to pull him into a hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

He chuckles and ruffles my hair. “I don’t have the job yet, silly girl…”

“But knowing what you want is the first step to getting it,” I remind him. He smiles.

“Like college, for you.”

“Exactly.”

I stand on my toes to kiss Edward, but instead of meeting his lips I press mine to his nose. He giggles, a short little squeak of a laugh. I feel that electrical current he stirs in me run from my pelvis down to my toes. 

“Help a girl out with some directions?” I flirt, rocking back on my heels and jutting out a hip like I’ve seen other girls do. I twirl a strand of hair around my fingers, trying to look innocent. Edward’s smile disappears, but the look on his face that replaces it is much better than a smile. It’s desire, plain and simple. I feel the electricity in me crackle into a fire.

“Where’s a nice girl like you trying to go?” He says, playing along. His voice is a little husky. The fire in me smolders and I’m sure I’m as red as a tomato.

“Nelson and 166th.”

Edward looks puzzled but leads the way to Pelham Parkway to catch a bus. The bus is packed, so we stand pressed up against each other for the fifteen minute ride. We don’t break eye contact for the whole ride; I have my hand resting lightly on his waist, stroking his thin nylon shirt. The cream part is textured with piles of different colored knits that were once soft but have gone stiff with washing-- I imagine the contrast between the shirt and his smooth skin below. 

Edward has us get off the bus at Fordham Road to catch the 4 train to 170th Street. We ride the subway in silence-- there’s one empty seat and Edward insists that I take it. I make a case for him to sit down and let me sit in his lap, but he refuses. I try to push the point, but he stills my hand as I try to tug him down to the seat so I let it go. At 170th Street, we walk the short three blocks to Nelson and 166th before coming to a stop in front of the building I’d read about.

“What’s here, Bella?” Edward asks. I fidget, feeling coy and uncertain all of a sudden.

Edward stoops to plant a soft kiss on my lips. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m just thinking about how much I love you. I want to live with you.”

Edward does a double take at me. “Are you sure?” I nod.

“I want to start my days with someone who loves me. I want to share comfort and time and everything there is to be shared. I just need one thing from you.”

“What’s that?” 

“I need you to keep me in the loop. You can’t keep things from me that you think you need to handle on your own. I deserve to know what’s going on with you.”

I close my eyes as Edward leans in to kiss my birthmark. I feel his grin against my skin.

“I promise.”

I unroll the newspaper I’ve kept under my arm, flipping it open to the classifieds. I show Edward the advertisement and hope he’ll come to the right conclusions. I watch Edward as he reads about the apartment. He turns from the paper to look at the apartment, then he looks down at the paper again, then finally he looks at me.

“You’re sure?” 

“As sure as I can be about anything.” With that, Edward swoops down and lifts me up with his enthusiasm about hugging me. He spins me in a circle and kisses me so deep that my head is spinning, my vision swimmy with the strange rush of blood that doesn’t know where in my body to settle. I kiss him back, letting his tongue into my mouth in a way that feels dirty… and good. Too good. We break apart and I’m gasping for air while Edward’s mouth moves to my neck. It feels incredible, like he’s eating me up on the outside, but the fire in my blood is burning me up on the inside. I could combust.

Then a car honks at the show we’re putting on and I push Edward away on instinct. We stand a few feet apart, gasping for air. Then we start laughing, and it’s like the day we first met. Everything is new and electrifying and fun and strange, but what ties all those feelings together is how right it all is. Edward takes my hand and together we climb the stoop’s stairs to press the call button for the superintendent of the building.

The super lets us in to show us the apartment; I’m surprised that he doesn’t blink about us not being married. He doesn’t even seem to notice that I’m younger than Edward, since it’ll be Edward’s name on the lease. Without a bank account, I can’t do much, but I plan to make sure Edward knows I’ll pay half the rent. The apartment is unit 706-- each floor has ten units, and there are ten floors. The building was built in 1951, so it’s relatively young. There’s even an elevator, the first in the neighborhood. My feet feel lighter, just thinking about not having to climb stairs after a shift at the pancake house. Thinking about the pancake house arouses some guilt, but I did see a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in a diner on 170th. I’m confident in my waitressing skills to be able to get a job, should we take the apartment.

“We’ll call you tomorrow,” Edward promises the super, then we head back to Manhattan. It’s a 30 minute bus and train ride to Barnard, in the northern part of the borough, then an hour down to Alphabet City. I feel giddy at the shorter commute from the apartment in the Bronx to school, but that’s putting the cart before the horse. 

Edward follows me up to my room at my apartment. Alice isn’t home from Chicago yet, but seeing her door open makes me miss her before there’s anything to really miss. If I move with Edward to the Bronx, I’ll be living an hour and a half away from her. It’ll be like we live in two different worlds. I’ll be away from the art, from Andy, from everything I’ve come to love about New York. But the trade off is that I’ll be with  _ my _ love, building our own world. And I promised Andy that if I get into Barnard I’ll still work with him sometimes. It’ll have to be enough.

I’m a little overwhelmed with it all. I lie facedown on my bed to think. It’s been a tremendous day-- I discovered that Nonna was still alive, reunited with my mother only to sever our relationship for good, and looked at an apartment that I might just move into with my-- my-- Edward. I don’t even know what to call him. A beau or boyfriend seems too little. But I’m not ready to call him my fiancé, or to be married. He’s just-- well, my person. The man I love. He’s everything.

Gentle hands rub my shoulders and pull me from my reverie. Edward rubs my back, massaging out the knotted muscles tenderly. It feels so good. I shudder into the bed. Before long, I moan with relief at his expert touch. I feel and hear his sharp intake of breath; the gasp is followed by the soft press of his lips against the back of my neck.

Slowly, painfully slowly, his lips make their way to the soft spot behind my ear. He kisses it gently, then a bit more firmly. I nearly buck off the bed with a jolt when I feel his teeth scrape the skin there; it reminds me of when I had my ears pierced. Our neighbor was a nurse, and when I was twelve, Mother allowed me to go over by myself and have her pierce my ears with a needle. The piercing wasn’t anything too terrible, merely a bee sting in my lobe, but the stud she threaded through the hole touched and tickled the skin behind my ear for weeks. That strange, ticklish feeling stimulated me in ways I didn’t understand until I was in Mr. Banner’s bed. But those feelings with Mr. Banner were muted and colorless compared to what I feel now with Edward.

“Edward?” I whisper, afraid to roll over to kiss him.

“Yes?” He whispers in return. His lips are millimeters from my skin. I feel his breath ghosting over the baby hairs around my ear. I shiver again.

“Go lock the door.”

I feel his sharp intake of breath against me and the bed, then the mattress moves as he gets up to turn the lock on my door handle. I toe off my shoes and wiggle a bit to make myself more comfortable on the bed. Edward turns out the overhead light, but before climbing back on the bed he switches on my bedside lamp, illuminating the room with a soft orange glow. 

Edward sits lightly on the bed and strokes my lower back, his hand inching down towards my bottom. His hand sweeps over my bottom and the touch makes me nearly jump out of my own skin. I can’t wait any longer; I roll over onto my back and reach up to pull him down onto me.

When Mr. Banner made love to me, he did it cautiously. I never felt passion, never felt like what we were doing was really making “love.” I told myself it was and eventually I believed my own lies, but the first opinions I had on the matter of sexual relations were that sex seemed to be like scratching a man’s itch. For a woman it seemed to be something to be endured. I learned I was wrong about those ideas when Alice and later Rosalie told me all about the pleasures to be derived from a man’s body, but I hadn’t felt that… until Edward collapses on top of me at the slight tug I gave to the shoulder of his shirt. 

His weight presses into me urgently and his hands roam my sides roughly, almost like he’s kneading dough. He kisses me with increasing vigor and decreasing control; we’re just smearing our mouths together, our teeth clacking and tongues mingling both lazily and aggressively. I direct his hand up under my shirt, and he palms my breast. Every touch sends off sparks behind my eyelids. We move and rut against each other and the room gets hot and steamy.

Edward sits up suddenly, but before I can protest him pulling away, he rips off his shirt. Shirtless, he drops back down to me and kisses my neck, suckling at the soft skin at the corner of my jaw. My breathing is audible now, a heavy pant punctuated by soft little groans. 

“Put a record on,” I rasp. I don’t want Jane to be able to hear us and knock on the door or bother us about what we’re getting up to behind closed doors. I don’t want her to think I’m moving in with Edward because I’ve gotten myself knocked up.

While Edward scrambles with my collection of records, I do mental math about my cycle. It’s been forever since I got it-- I calculate that it’s due in a day or two at the most. I left my diaphragm back in Seattle, but I don’t want to stop right now. I don’t  _ think _ I can fall pregnant if we have intercourse; if he continues to kiss me like he just did, I might not even care about the slim odds.

The sweet, soft tones of “It’s Only Love” by the Beatles warble out from my little record player. Edward has put on side two of Rubber Soul, my favorite Beatles album. With the music on, we settle back into necking. It’s sweeter than it was before even though it’s just as desperate. I clutch at the hair that curls around the back of Edward’s neck. His hands go back under my shirt, and nudge it up until it pools around my chin. I break the kiss to wiggle it up and over my head.

Looking into Edward’s eyes, I unzip my skirt and shimmy out of it, flat on my back the whole time. I pull my skirt slip down as well; I’m just in my bra and panties, thin old things that cut across my belly button. I feel both girlish and adult at the same time. 

Edward traces the elastic at the top of my underwear, then dips his head to place a kiss directly on my navel. I nearly flip off the bed-- it tickles! I can’t stop the giggle that erupts. Edward flushes crimson, but joins in with me laughing. He flops down on the bed beside me.

“I’m no good at this,” he complains quietly.

“I disagree,” I say. “But maybe don’t kiss my belly button. It’s too sensitive and ticklish.”

Edward looks a little embarrassed, but I kiss that look right off his face. I climb on top of him and set my legs astride his hips. Now I’m the aggressor of the kiss, pulling from him deeply and gently rocking over his pelvis. I feel his desire hot and hard below me. Each tiny movement I make feels like I’m licking a battery, but between my thighs.

Boldly, I reach down to put my palm over him. I stroke him over his trousers with my palm, testing the feel of his body. I never got to explore Mr. Banner; once, he tried to put it in my mouth, but I cried a little and he stopped. With Edward, my mouth is almost watering at the idea of seeing how he tastes.

“Bella,” Edward whispers as the song transitions to “Girl.” 

“Yes?”

“There’s a prophylactic in my camera bag. If you want to… you know. Make love.”

I pull away from him and stare deeply into his eyes.

“Do you want to?” I whisper. He nods.

“Very much. I always want you.” He tilts his head up towards me, seeking a kiss. I plant one on his lips but he pulls away quickly.

“Do you? Are you comfortable? Are you ready?” 

Instead of answering him, I get off the bed and fumble around with his things. I pull a thin foil packet from the pocket of his camera bag: a Durex Lubricated Rolled Condom. Shyly, I sit back down on the bed. Edward pulls me into his arms and kisses me senseless. I lose all my modesty in the kiss.

“Yes,” I say, answering his previous question. “I want to make love with you.”

Edward nudges me until I’m hovering over him, an inch of air separating our bodies. He unbuckles his belt and shimmies his pants down. I can see the shape of him through his boxers. I reach down to touch him again, and he brings his hand up to run a finger right down the middle of my panties.

It’s too much and not close to enough at the same time. I’ve had intercourse enough, but the touch of Edward’s finger to my intimate flesh over the cotton barrier of my underwear feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever experienced so far. I kiss him desperately as his finger traces the elastic at the apex of my leg and hip, then remove my hand from his covered erection to cling to his neck when his finger slips underneath the elastic and touches me directly. 

Within a few passes of his finger over my bare skin, I’m trembling and making incoherent sounds into Edward’s damp skin. He uses both hands to hold me steady above him, then slowly removes my underwear to run his fingers through the curly hair that sits between my thighs. It feels too good for words. I shift above him so I can take my underwear completely off, and as I do, Edward does the same with his boxers. Making eye contact, he bites the corner of the foil packet and tears it open. I watch reverently as he rolls the condom over his erection and let him direct me so I’m balanced on my knees above his body.

As John Lennon sighs and sings “Girl,” Edward places both hands on my hips and pulls me down so that the head of his penis is nudging my opening. It’s hot and hard and spongy all at once. I sink down on top of it, enveloping Edward with my body as the song transitions from the last verse into the refrain. “Ah, girl, girl, girl…”

Edward chokes out a moan at our joining. He grasps the back of my neck and pulls me down so we can kiss. It’s unusual, coupling this way; I’ve never been on top before. Mr. Banner always had me lying on my back. This way, I feel more of a sensation between my thighs as well as deep inside me. I have an urge to rock back and forth, to move up and down, and I do. Each movement I make draws forth a delicious sound from Edward. I swallow his noises with kisses. He strokes the skin of my back, my sides, palms my breasts and belly. I feel hot and loved all over. Something inside of me is tightening, getting a little insistent. 

“Edward,” I pant. “I don’t know what’s happening…”

“Chase it,” he says, drawing his hands down to my bottom. He uses his hands as a sort of spring to help me move over him, and as the thing inside of me gets tighter and tighter, I realize that I’ve never made love before.  _ This _ is making love.

All at once, the thing in me contracts and expands, taking over my body. I moan but it sounds like I’m choking, and I barely hear Edward’s words because I’m all wound up in my own sensation of pleasure.

“Bella, I’m coming, oh…”

Thankfully, Edward stops pushing me up and down and lets me collapse against his chest. We’re both sweaty and breathing heavily. He’s still inside of me, but softening in an uncomfortable way. I roll to the side of my tiny bed but keep my head down on his chest, burrowing my brow into his pectoral muscle. When we both have our breath back, I look up at Edward just as he looks down at me, and we both giggle.

Edward rids himself of the condom and rejoins me on the bed. Something in the air between us shifts; lying side by side, looking into each other’s eyes. There’s an understanding, I think.  _ This is it. _ You’re the one I want.

“There is no one compares with you,” the Beatles sing. Tears form in the corners of my eyes, and I think I see the same tears reflected in Edward’s. He wraps his arms around me. We listen to the song while our heartbeats slow and match rhythm. 

“In my life, I love you more,” John Lennon and Paul McCartney sing. Edward and I join in with them softly. We hold each other and listen to the rest of the record, then Edward kindly gets out of bed to turn the record player off. Naked, he rejoins me in the little sanctuary of our own creation, under the thin covers of my little bed in Alphabet City.

In the morning, Edward escorts me to the subway to Brooklyn but begs out of joining me on the ride there. 

“I need to take care of some things, get some pictures taken,” he says. How can I say no to that? 

I ride to the testing center thinking about last night. In my head, the Beatles song “Michelle” plays on repeat. Each time the song reaches  _ “I love you, I love you, I lo-o-ove you,” _ I suppress a little smile. I sign in to take the SAT with Paul McCartney assuring me that he wants me in my head, but I push all thoughts of the Fab Four out when the test is passed out to the small room of high schoolers. 

I feel out of place taking the test with high school students, but I find I don’t mind it. I’m exactly where I need to be.

The test takes three hours. When I’ve turned my packet in to the proctor, I start the long journey back into Manhattan. The day feels full of promise, the heat of the summer thrumming through my blood. I feel like a song off the Nina Simone album that came out last year: “Feeling Good.” I plan to put on “I Put a Spell on You” when I get home.

Outside my building, leaning on the railing for the stoop, is Edward. He’s got on a green pageboy cap made of a type of corduroy; the contrast of the color with his hair is striking. The cap is tipped low over his face, shading his eyes. When he notices me, he raises his eyebrows in greeting and tips his cap even lower for a second before returning it to its perch on his forehead. My man is a hunk.

“Hey good lookin’,” I call out to him. Edward’s playful smirk turns into a huge grin.

“What’cha got cookin’?” He asks me in return. 

I dance over to him, doing my best impression of a country two-step. 

“How’s about cookin’ something up with me?”

Edward takes my hand and spins me out. Dancing with him on the sidewalk is just as romantic as dancing with him in the nightclub was. I beam as he spins me back against his chest.

“I signed the lease,” Edward says when I settle into swaying in his arms. 

“What?!” 

“I signed the lease to that apartment in Highbridge. The year-long option.”

I blink at him dumbly. “But I didn’t even get into Barnard yet.”

Edward smiles his sweet crooked smile. “You will.” It’s all I can do not to jump him right there in the street.

He makes good on his promise-- I do get into Barnard. I do well enough on the SATs that Barnard offers me a partial scholarship, letting me attend full time without having to work full time. Andy pays my admittance fee and I pepper his face with kisses when I pick up the check. He pushes me off him, tells me that I already paid him back well enough; that Rosalie is making two movies with him. The first one is about her success in New York City, after living as a black widow in the South. The second is a thirty minute film of her rear end as she sits on different surfaces. I can tell which one was Rose’s idea, and which was Andy’s. I promise him I’ll watch both.

Alice and Jasper help me pack my room up. All it takes to move to the Bronx is one box of my clothes and one of my possessions: my books, my records, my autoharp. Edward has enough stuff that he ends up borrowing the truck of one of Jasper’s friends. I meet him and Jasper’s friend outside our new place and help them up. Jasper’s friend introduces himself as David. He’s charming and friendly. He asks me to play the autoharp for him and he sings along to all the Joan Baez music I play. He begs me to continue after I tell him that I’ve played enough, my fingers are sore. When he leaves, I have to ask Edward if he knew that the man whose truck he just borrowed, the man who helped him move, was Dave Van Ronk. Edward’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.

The diner on 170th hires me for the dinner shifts. I get paid under a dollar an hour, and the tips don’t come close to what I was making in Manhattan; at the end of a week, I’ve only netted about $35. My share of the rent is $49, plus the utilities, which should up to about $53 in housing expenses per month if I don’t include groceries. It just won’t cut it, with tuition to think about as well. To my surprise, I manage to talk my way into a Saturday evening cocktail waitressing shift at the Gaslight Cafe. Edward joins me on my first shift there, sitting in a corner and nursing an Old Fashioned that I bring him on the sly. On my break, we sit and listen to a young Canadian duo. The woman, Joni, plays an autoharp-- just like me! I love her music, and Edward promises we’ll make the long commute from Highbridge to Greenwich Village every time she schedules a performance.

The tips from the Gaslight make my commute home feel like I’m getting away with bank robbery. After my second shift, Edward fans out all the money on our bed and tells me to lie down on top of it in only my bra and skirt slip. I do, spreading my hair out over the part of the bed that isn’t covered with money; Edward takes a few photographs of me smiling coyly at the camera. He wants to submit them to an art summit of soft erotica. I’m self conscious about my body, but I love his artwork so of course I want him to have the opportunity of sharing it with the world. I’ll be eighteen in less than a month, anyway.

Slowly but surely, Rosalie makes a presence in my life again. First she lets me catch a glimpse of her leaving the Bronx Press-Review’s offices when I stop by to drop off Edward’s forgotten lunch. I suspect a rat: that he tipped Rose off to my visit, so she could plan a quick sighting, but Edward claims innocence. Then Rosalie appears at the Gaslight on my second shift, but won’t let me serve her. Finally, on my first day of class at Barnard, I see her across the street, smoking a cigarette. I wave to her and she motions for me to cross the street; when I reach her, I see her eye makeup massacred by the tears streaming down her face. I have no choice but to hug her as tightly as I can, and I join her in crying when I feel her arms grip me just as tightly.

After my first day at school, Edward sits next to me as I dial my father’s number. We have a new number in the Bronx, but it’s still a party line. This time while talking with him, I leave him with our number so he can call and check in on me when he wants. 

“I’m doing really well, Dad,” I say. “I’ve met someone. I think he’s the one, but I’m not ready to be married just yet.”

“I’m happy for you, Bella,” he says. He sounds like he means it. September 11th will mark one year since I’ve seen my father. I miss him, and I tell him so.

“Would it be… alright? If I come and visit you?” He asks hopefully.

Tears prick my eyes, and I fight against the sting in the back of my throat that comes with being overtaken by emotion. “I’d like that.”

He promises to visit in November, at Thanksgiving. Edward and I decide to invite Carlisle and Esme, and their little baby to come for the holiday as well. We tell them that it’s our duty to help them assimilate to American culture. It’ll be my first holiday cooking for a big family: a new family, one I’ve cultivated for myself. The summer’s end is fast approaching, but the rest of my life is ahead of me. With Edward by my side, everything feels possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for the chapter title is "Everyday" by Buddy Holly. Released in 1957 as a single, it's an apt song for the feelings and experiences Bella and Edward have in this chapter, I think! Give it a listen!
> 
> The Brooklyn Baron was a weekly newspaper, similar in scope to the Bronx Press-Review, where Edward works. 
> 
> In Italian, to make a name a diminutive, you add either “-ina” or “-ino.” So, “Isabellina” is essentially “little Isabella.” 
> 
> My Italian is incredibly limited, but here’s what’s said:  
> “Chi è qui” = “Who is there?”  
> “Ragazzo” = boy (but can be used to mean “boyfriend”)  
> “Cara, la tua figlia” = “darling, your daughter.”
> 
> “The big C” was a term used to refer to cancer, back before it was a more common diagnosis. It’s still used, but in the 1960s the word “cancer” was equivalent to “Voldemort” in Harry Potter— you just didn’t call it by name.
> 
> Bella’s mother had non Hodgkins lymphoma, a blood cancer that can sometimes be reasonably treated with chemotherapy and radiation. 
> 
> “I Fought the Law” is a song released in 1959 by the Crickets, Buddy Holly’s band. It was written by Sonny Curtis in 1958, released after Holly’s death, and features Earl Sinks on vocals. It was made popular in 1966 with a cover by the Bobby Fuller Four, and the Clash covered the song in 1979. I’m partial to the original track by the Crickets, but listen to all 3 and judge for yourself!
> 
> “Feeling Good” was first recorded by Nina Simone in 1965. People of my generation might be more familiar with it from Michael Bublé’s cover, but no one outdoes the incomparable Miss Simone.
> 
> “Hey, Good Lookin’” is the song Bella and Edward sing when he meets her outside her Alphabet City apartment. It is a 1951 single from Hank Williams’ album Memorial Album— it peaked at number 1 on the Billboard chart in 1951, when Edward was 10 years old. It’s a popular enough song that both of them would have been familiar with it.
> 
> The “Canadian duo” that Edward and Bella see perform at the Gaslight cafe are Joni and Chuck Mitchell. The two were married in 1965, resulting in Joni taking Chuck’s last name, which would be the name through which she gained success, despite their divorce in 1967.
> 
> “Michelle” is a track from the first side of the Beatles 1965 album Rubber Soul (which, by the way, is my favorite Beatles album). It won the Grammy Award for Song of the Year in 1967. It’s on my top 10 list of favorite songs, so of course I had to include it.
> 
> The order of the songs on side 2 of Rubber Soul might sound strange, but it is authentic to the original North American release of the record, so it corresponds to the order in which Bella and Edward would have listened to the album.
> 
> Thank you for your patience with this chapter! I know it's a long one, but it's the penultimate. I'm so sad to see this story come to an end, but I don't like to write things with no end in sight. Please let me know if you'd be interested in a podfic posted when I post the final chapter, or a full post of all the resources I used while writing POPism! As always, reviews make me really happy and I'd love to answer any historical questions!


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